Saturday, 27 November 2010

Waking hours are cold, hard and remorseless.
Distraught afterthoughts constantly battle cruel logic.
Force back constructions of pure white goodness.
Whip the head into line before the heart objects.
Both eyes and best foot forward, resolute.
What shirt shall I wear. Which pub to visit?
Beguile, force smiles, never look destitute.
An awful scam, and your all complicit!

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