Pen Fodder
With arms spread wide like Ibiza
With my Brighton rock stuck in my throat
And throbbing with a pulse
For all that glitters as it slithers into serpentine
The darker recesses, we waltzed
Feeling common as anachronism
London, meet me there
With my whirlwind of Netherlands
We dine upon the night
As a whore twice would
But more the class as we starve
And dining out upon it for a century
Of smiles and a million degrades
Not too much for a pen fodder in these latter days
Completely stultified
Copyright © Nathaniel Köhp | Year Posted 2009
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