Cirrhosis,
Red noses,
Ulcers and gout,
The crowd
Were so loud
That their ails had to shout.
They sank,
As they drank,
To a spot on the floor,
Till surely
The poorly
Could not rise no more.
Today
They’re away
To embrace the bereft;
Tomorrow
The horror
Of whom they have left.
The breeching
And leaching
Of walls and events;
Explaining
The pain in
A chain of beer tents.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment