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From Pipers to The Endless River

by Johnny Crimson

The shining knocks,
the wayward clocks;
that tick and rock
their blushing tocks,
that forward relieve
the prime minister's peeves,
to ascertain
Pink Floyd's relief.

I'm surely sane
like a maddening tick
that grates at my back step;
running parallel
to my hips.

Why does no pathetic(er)
ever write poetry while intoxicated?


Author's Note: All whilst sitting at their desk at work?

Posted on 07/29/2016
Copyright © 2022 Johnny Crimson

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