His mother was an absentee,
His father, an explorer —
He grew beneath a dying tree,
Both up, and poorer —
Now autumn sings out in the woods,
As winter comes a-calling;
He’s got the cans, but not the goods,
And more than leaves are falling —
We live, because we’re born to live,
But he’s afraid of dying:
And if I said he’d told the truth,
Then I’d
Be lying
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Tagged: Tags Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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