Cloaking
Lost unto a Gin spin
The blood grows thin
To the beckoning
Of a morning hangover of regret
And reading the tet a tet
Of slurring rambling
The pre-amble
Shall read
Here lies the afterbirth
Of the Man Child Boy
Who writes until the morning
Comes to fetch what is left
Of the night before
Bore the brunt of self loathing
In Emperor's cloaking
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