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Sing Like a Girl

January 27, 2018

onehundredseventythree

If you’re allowed to live.
It’s only because.
You stood under the salient flags.
And if you’re alive.
It’s only because.
Death didn’t pick you out at the dance.

You’re free to sob.
And you’re free to leave.
There’s not one fly on you.
Peter and Paul.
As much as I recall.
Had the same kind of reprieve.

I can’t understand.
Why you’d want.
Someone like me around.
You’ve got your wings.
And your bird is green.
But it never makes a sound.
I suppose you ring.
Around the houses.
Taking up a mortgage where you can.
I’m clipped.
And fucked.
With a little mirror bride.
A little parrot man.

But it’s a beautiful life to lead.
In a wooden caravan.
Going down the glue factory.
WIth your horse’s head in a bag.
Pinning notes in the Post Office.
“Who’s seen the cunt that stole my nag?”.
The old boy’ll run on goodwill.
By the grace of God.
They’ll pay a tenner for a big mare.
Fifteen if it’s shod.

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From → Poetry

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