Long Rathskeller Poems

In a London pub fingers idly play with place mats.
Wonder-lust had led them back to where they assumed they had first met.
She recalled a local vicinity a basement rathskeller, he a country Inn;
cork mats slid...

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They were cheaters but they were real,
the old bitoks. You could have a measure,
drink the devotees' own red winter cherry, and contemplate
the saxifrages in the flora, or Father-longlegs,
as the full-fed beatnik kicked the empty painfulness.
...

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