Sunday, April 19, 2009

The Red Lion

Cast iron birds the color of old porcelain
Your phone an alarm, and should I worry?
There’s an old man hanging from the ceiling
His face frozen from ecstasy or taxidermy.
Your tits look great cause you’re smiling
But the bricks show through the plaster
And there are swords on every wall.

Though this is all for decorative purposes,
How many flags can you count from the bar?
Worn with esteem or carried as anecdotes
Pulled from the wallet to stimulate talk
Or drape over proof of stimulation,
They catch all the wasted seeds, who are fine
Who are fine and swimming.

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