Old Mans Dreams
Old Man, all alone
remembering his bawling baby, being sick
and of spotty girls with golden hair
daydreaming of pink blancmange and pies
Friday nights
once he was a lad full of brass
punching the sulphate air
His wrongs as horny as cover
The autumn leaves intertwine
The still sleeper
with no clocks to chime
The night ascends
broken by the screeching owl
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