11.8.17

A parable

Hell there must be a hundred thousand garrons pulling my fathers' will to take you back,
Treason, they shouted on the morrow,
Treason and no other shade of black,
In spite of my molten grace of doubt,
For the moment is the price the broken lover is to pay,
Fag in hand while rots in debt,
A feast or orange morning grey,
My drunken eye of curl and leather,
Wish you were it in all your glory,
This gilded song will go no further,
I ponder where now I shall sit,
Nights in the dark of mongrel fury,
Love me not any, break me on the sixth.

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