a poem made of parts stolen one piece at a time
May 26, 2012 § Leave a comment
Kilgore Trout was here
said his daddy made whiskey
and he made it well
so, leave the gun
take the cannoli
and we’ll bury that
old dog Gideon
by the crepe myrtle bush
where poets tell
how Pancho fell
in this, the best of times,
the worst of times,
I keep my feathers numbered
for just such an occasion
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