Last night Poet Bruce
Rolled back into town
In a borrowed slouch hat
And hermaphrodite gown.
He ain't said very much,
In fact he won't talk at all.
He's just writing short poems
In chalk on the wall.
O Poet, why d'you look so tired?
O Poet, where've you been?
O Poet, who're you dancing with,
Miss Brown or just Miss Green?
3 comments:
There's that good stuff.
It comes at a cost, don't it . . .
Fuck yes. And I'm still not convinced that the cost is worth the result. But you persist because what else is there to do?
persist
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