Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
the
bass,
the
treble,
the
high,
high
hat,
rat
a
tat
tat,
throb
and
pull,
a
mad,
mad
pulse,
match
the
slow
pour
of
a
sloe
gin,
and
I
never
clap
for
the
rude
crescendo
of
her
tin
ear
and
his
last
call...
Copyright © Andrew Foreman | Year Posted 2014
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