And livid; slanted
Over his brows,
It makes
A keyboard.
And I am all ears.
He doesn't rhyme
His a cappella,
Just opens his chop
And lets
Anguish spill out
All over the solid,
Sliding, scuffing,
Submerging
His miseries
Into my totes.
Flogging dearth
For fifty pence piece.
I scour together
A few wooden
Beams
And let them fly
Into his string casing.
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