A gun, a kitchen knife & a nail-clipper
Met in the bar one day,
Then, reflectively, the gun licked the foam off his lips,
To the others he did say,
"Oh won't you call me Ali
Mr Noif & Ms.Clipper, puleaze,
I've done me bit of 'ard shootin',
I've backed up me share of sleaze,
But I'd love to write a poem"~ the others nodded OK,
"An' the hottest purveyor of poems
That I've 'eard of from 'ere to Cathay
Is that smoke-ringed mystery poet, Ali ~
Ali Alizadeh".
Hope this will do at a pinch, Ali, even though it starts off like
Lautréamont & ends as Kipling.
Martin
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