Prosaic Poem that doesn't want to be one or Ode to Flatness
Last night, at about ten o'clock,
the telephone rang. 'Hello' I offered,
as you do. 'Who are you?' a voice
bellowed at the other end.
And this morning, as the monks
sang, a road-sweeping machine
droned back and forth, back
and forth, and thus drowned
out their sound. Perhaps it's time
I read Dan Brown, perhaps it's
time I found a hole in the ground,
perhaps it's time that's whispering
so gentle in my ear:
' why don't you just piss off'.
All the Worst
Dave
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