BS: WalkaboutsVerse Anew

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Don Firth
Date: 13 Apr 09 - 04:50 PM

Speaking of modern composers,

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Philip Glass

Don Firth

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Nick
Date: 13 Apr 09 - 05:31 PM

>>For what it's worth, I've retired from versification, but... OH NO!!!! Surely some mistake

UNCOMPRESSED (for WAV)

The last swan flies from Coole unaware of the waiting hunter
And the walking man leaves the foul rag and bone shop
Of his heart on the final sojourn
And the, abuse, of the, humble, comma ends.

Let me number the days that my heart bleeds for your return
Let me yearn for my turn to burn the infernal internal churn
Lay metre aside and chase zeugmatic symbiosis
On the top deck of a number 27 bus
Reflecting on the mund and inane.

Not one.

"Walk a mile in my shoes" he said
But I only managed to walk obit.
Errata will follow but
Erato can sleep again
With conscience unbound

E J Thribb (13)

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Surreysinger
Date: 13 Apr 09 - 06:56 PM

Capn ... that's the first time I've seen Mr Cage's glorious piece of music written down ... thanks...

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Amos
Date: 13 Apr 09 - 07:09 PM

The diazeugma is a zeugma where a noun governs two or more verbs. Latin rhetoricians further divide the diazeugma according to the placement of the subject and verbs.

Diazeugma Disjunction

The subject appears at the beginning of the sentence and each verb follows in its respective clause.

Populus Romanus Numantiam delevit, Kartaginem sustulit, Corinthum disiecit, Fregellas evertit.—Rhetorica ad Herennium
The Roman people destroyed Numantia, razed Carthage, demolished Corinth, and overthrew Fregella.

Formae dignitas aut morbo deflorescit aut vetustate extinguitur—Rhetorica ad Herennium''
Physical beauty: with disease it fades; with age it dies.

Diazeugma Conjunction

The subject appears in the middle of a sentence and may take the place of a conjunction.

Stands accused, threatens our homes, revels in his crime, this man guilty of burglary asks our forgiveness.

Despairing in the heat and in the sun, we marched, cursing in the rain and in the cold.

Hypozeuxis

The Hypozeuxis is the opposite of a zeugma, where each subject has its own verb.
The parents scowled, the girls cried, and the boys jeered while the clown stood confused.
"We shall fight on the beaches. We shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall fight in the fields, and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender!"—Winston Churchill

(Wikipedia)

In case anyone wondered about that zeugmatiic epilepsy hitherto and yon.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Nick
Date: 13 Apr 09 - 07:38 PM

The example of zeugma I always remember from schooldays was - "He swallowed his pride and a cough lozenge".

Hypozeuxis is new to me. It was tmesis the other week which up until then I'd always thought was what Mr Jinx chased after.

Aren't parts of speech fun?

Were it not for WAV, we might not be exploring them. Or talking in subjunctives.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Joe_F
Date: 13 Apr 09 - 08:30 PM

"Far fucking out" is a whole nother tmesis. Whether "It's eight o'fucking clock" is a tmesis is a nice question.

*

VirginiaTam: And frolics in the grass.

*

The place to pass
On curves, you know,
Is only at
The beauty show.
Burma Shave.

Her man's whiskers
Never faze her --
He shaves by
Electric razor.
Why bother with
Burma Shave?

*

Said a sage in Westminster Abbey,
"Most critics are cruel and crabby,
But Auden and Clerihew Bentley
Have treated us justly and gently."

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Amos
Date: 13 Apr 09 - 09:04 PM

Absofuckinglutely it is. The academic nabobs might assert there is some disbloodyfuckingscrepancy in such as assertion but I don't see it.


A

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 04:27 AM

I'll make vegans of vogons!..

Poem 206 of 230: MY DIET

Chasing breads, nuts, bananas,
    Red sauce, apples, sultanas,
Crackers, conserves, cucumbers,
    Pickles, porridge, pottages -

Lemon barley,
    Cocoa, coffee,
Or cups of tea.

From http://walkaboutsverse.sitegoz.com
Or http://blogs.myspace.com/walkaboutsverse

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Snuffy
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 09:25 AM

Christian Morgenstern said it all a century ago in Fisches Nachtgesang.

Further comment is superfluous

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Bonnie Shaljean
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 09:34 AM

Cage's four minutes of silence prompted Stravinsky to remark that he looked forward to a full-length work -

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: The Sandman
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 09:40 AM

here it is,the sound of silence.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Jack Blandiver
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 10:16 AM

What is it with Folkies and John Cage? To give piece it's proper title, 4'33" has precious little to do with silence, on the contrary.

4'33", pronounced "four minutes, thirty-three seconds", (Cage himself referred to it as "four, thirty-three") is often mistakenly referred to as Cage's "silent piece". He made it clear that he believed there is no such thing as silence, defined as a total absence of sound. In 1951, he visited an anechoic chamber at Harvard University in order to hear silence. "I literally expected to hear nothing," he said. Instead, he heard two sounds, one high and one low. He was told that the first was his nervous system and the other his blood circulating. This was a major revelation that was to affect his compositional philosophy from that time on. It was from this experience that he decided that silence defined as a total absence of sound did not exist. "Try as we may to make a silence, we cannot," he wrote. "One need not fear for the future of music."

For more, please read: http://solomonsmusic.net/4min33se.htm.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Stu
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 10:34 AM

"Instead, he heard two sounds, one high and one low. He was told that the first was his nervous system and the other his blood circulating. "

That's basically what tinnitus is.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Bonnie Shaljean
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 10:38 AM

It was a joke, SS. Ever hear of those? Yes, we all know the "proper" title, but thanks all the same.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Amos
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 10:39 AM

Darkness, more and more, or less and less.

Silence approached asymptotically.

Only by degrees do you lure a soul into residence

In a blood-bound sea of bone and meat,

Make an identity that really sticks,

Or boil a frog.

Increments rule.



A

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 12:10 PM

No frogs, Amos, in my "pottages", above - rather, there's usually powdered vegetable soup, baked beans, lettuce, cucumber, carrot, or whatever other vegies are fresh at the store; plus toast and crisps and red sauce.

We can, on the other hand, plant a simple bucket-pond in our gardens to help stop the world-wide decline of frogs.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Amos
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 12:53 PM

Dear bloody jumping Jaysus, WAV... it is hard to imagine how roundly the link between my last post and its antecedent (Cage's remark on the impossibility of silence) was so wholly and completely missed. Your remark, in the context of my post, is one a boiling frog would make about the pleasantly warm water he was succumbing to. I do not meran to be rude, but I feel badly misunderstood.
A

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: The Sandman
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 01:04 PM

why powdered vegetable soup,cant you cook?Ihope you dont eat Pot Noodles
if you get apressure cooker youcan boil your vegetables speedily.
one day for a spree.
I was feeling in need
of boiling a carrot or three.
so without much a do.
caution to the wind I threw,and bought myself a pressure cooker.
while I was there
I do declare,by chance I met my future wife.
she was areal good looker.
by Billy Bunter,Owl of the remove 4 may 1927

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Surreysinger
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 03:01 PM

Sinister Supporter ... surprisingly enough quite a few of us on here know perfectly well what Cage's work is about and, as Bonnie said, what it's title is. Believe it or not, some of us also perform classical works as well... I've actually been present at a performance of the piece in question ... and found it somewhat pretentious and pointless!!! Good job we don't all like the same things, isn't it?

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: The Sandman
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 03:43 PM

Sinister S,I too understand what the work of Cage is about.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: GUEST,Captain Swing
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 05:03 PM

Old Hippie - I know it as:

Si Senor der dey go
Fortilorris ian ro
Dement lorris, demis trux
Fullagees anensan dux

Hope it makes more sense

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 05:43 PM

Sorry if I leapfrogged you, Amos - no animosity, or Amosity, intended.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Don Firth
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 06:49 PM

Speaking of soup, I once knew a fellow whose vision was so poor that when he bought alphabet soup, he had to get the large print edition.

Don Firth

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Janie
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 07:42 PM

An oyster met an oyster
and they were oysters two.
Two oysters met two oysters
and they were oysters too.
Four oysters met a pint of milk...

and they were oyster stew.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Bill D
Date: 14 Apr 09 - 08:02 PM

An oyster met a rock band....and discovered

A noisy noise annoys an oyster.

--------------------------------------------------

There goes the Wapiti
Hippiti hoppiti

Ogden Nash

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 15 Apr 09 - 04:47 AM

Further on frogs; and food...

Poem 112 of 230: FROM AN ECCLES FLAT - SPRING 2000

The bedroom window's southerly views
    Contained allotters paying their dues -
All kinds of veg. brought to fruition,
    And youngsters receiving tuition;
Starlings and sparrows I'd often see -
    On a roof or a nearby tree;
And, in a distant poplar perched high,
    The large twiggy nest of a magpie;
In spring, daisies would yellow the floor -
    Matched by Forsythias, grown next door;
Behind terraces, a moony crest -
    The Dome of the new Trafford complex;
And the moon itself, in the right spot,
    Would light the night's clouds up quite a lot.

The kitchen window's northerly views
    Included an agent selling news;
A butcher struggling with position -
    Much sunlight aimed at his nutrition;
And a popular English chippie -
    Mashed peas and red sauce on top, for me;
White gulls dotting a sombre grey sky,
    Plus light- and large-aircraft flying by;
Walkers and traffic would make a roar -
    At peak travel hours all the more;
Handsomely-set skies toward the west
    As the day's sun took its nightly rest;
And a bucket-pond and ivy plot,
    That, on a shoestring, I loved a lot.

From http://walkaboutsverse.sitegoz.com (e-scroll)
Or http://blogs.myspace.com/walkaboutsverse (e-book)

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: GUEST,The baker's dozen
Date: 15 Apr 09 - 10:43 AM

Poem 112,330 of 234,860: FROM AN ECCLES CAKE - SPRING 2008

The bedroom window's southerly views
    Framing bakers paying their dues -
All kinds of cakes filled with fruition,
    And youngsters avoiding nutrition;
Hot cross buns I'd often see -
    And Ecclefechan roaming free;
And, in a distant tin perched high,
    The floury nest of a warm mince pie;
In spring, lemon drizzle would yellow the floor -
    Matched by simnels, marzipanned by the score;
Behind Pudding Lane, a moony crest -
    A glimpse of creamy Paris Brest.
A half-moon cake, I kid you not,
    I really liked it quite a lot.

The kitchen window's cakey view
    Would me with love and pride imbue;
A patissiere there on a mission -
    To end my struggle with nutrition;
While an English cook of tarts -
    Fattened the chambers of my heart;
White merengues soon did me wrong,
    And treacle tarts my arteries thronged;
Blood in my veins made a roar -
    I feared I would soon be no more;
As the sun set in the west
    I sped towards eternal rest;
A cholesterol-filled graveyard plot,
    I died by cakes, but loved the lot.

I am going to allow this post to stand with the admonition that you are NOT permitted to use multiple identities. This will be allowed as it is poetry, but be advised it will not be allowed again.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Amos
Date: 15 Apr 09 - 11:26 AM

Scansion he knew not, nor understood
The current of the higher good
That poets turn to for their light;
Rhythm had he none, and few
Notions you'd call deep, or new;
And writing on, in couplets long,
We could not say that he was wrong,
But knew him not quite right.

His was a hungry turning, blind,
To fill an anorexic mind,
By spilling nouns about like blocks,
Upon a sleepy kitchen floor,
Never enough, yet nevermore.
The cause of hunger never known,
Truth never asked, light left alone,
Painting the souls as broken clocks,
Hoping to fend away the night.

Llewellyn Sapon Gentile
Confessions of a Brussels Sprout
Pon, Deris Publishing
Lily-on-Grime, 1986

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 15 Apr 09 - 12:31 PM

I'm glad that Eccles parody was allowed to stand - it tickled my fancy, frankly, in more ways than one...very nice with a soya-coffee.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 16 Apr 09 - 03:44 AM

Poem 113 of 230: FOLLOWING THE SUN - SPRING 2000

Having moved, by buses, up the hill from Salford to Bury
    (To be within walk of new work, again),
These stimuli surround between my abode and the factory
    As I follow the sun - its wax, its wane:
Walking toward work and the rising sun, a morning chorus
    Rides the crisp breezy air of hill-farmland,
While gravel, of road and path, beneath my plonked feet crunches,
    And P.V.C. flaps loose of its hay-stand.

Bumble bees, tree sparrows and robins bob along the hedgerows,
    Squirrels and hares hop ahead on my route;
And on a weather-wrapped reservoir - glassy, or dulled by blows -
    Glide mute- and whooper-swans, ducks, geese and coot;
Horses, goats, sheep and cattle laze and graze on fields of green -
    Fields they, in turn, feed, helping make hay;
And, above, swifts and herons sometimes grace the aerial scene -
    A scene framed by a moorland chain of grey.

Slugs - some rusty, others pitch-black - slither on a clayey path,
    That slopes sharply beside the reservoir;
And a whitegood on green-grass - a horse trough, once a human bath -
    Amuses me as I view from afar;
As does Peel Monument, atop a distant Holecombe mount -
    By which an uncle and I once took lunch;
Disturbed nettles - brushed in such distraction - make their bulwarks count,
    And a shed-side arbour demands a hunch.

One time, three sheep-dogs determined me lost, and rounded me up;
    Oftentimes, the Metro. tram rattles by;
And, sometimes, a horse will urge me make handy a grassy cup,
    Or nudge for a scratch down its back and thigh;
On cooler mornings, the dew on grasses soaks my joggers through,
    But beautifies clumps of whimsy grass-heads;
And, already proceeding on his routine of chores to do,
    A farmer strong-hoses out the cowsheds.

Caravan-people leave their grouping to walk the well-worn track,
    And milk- and mail-vans squeeze tightly by;
Antique farm-machines rust away in a grassed ramshackle-stack,
    And pigeons startle from their grassy lie;                                                
In sun, fishing-people and bathers dot the reservoir's shore,
    And, in shade, ferns the sides of path and stream;
Near gates, manure fills the air and makes stepping a chore,
    But elsewhere the views are a poet's dream.

Magpies, near horses, bop around - perhaps for aroused worms;
    Laburnums sprung yellow, and hawthorns white,
Pleasingly, in nature, border the fields of farming-firms,
    And help enclose this Radcliffe rural site;
Plus, as I meander home from a day's factory toil,
    The sun, when it sets in a clear sky,
Forms a large amber ball, behind a converted cotton-mill -
    Signalling another day almost by.

From http://walkaboutsverse.sitegoz.com (e-scroll)
Or http://blogs.myspace.com/walkaboutsverse (e-book)

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Rifleman (inactive)
Date: 16 Apr 09 - 01:36 PM

From the Oxford Book of Vogon Poetry.

See, see the dead sky
Marvel at its big puce depths.
Tell me, Frances do you
Wonder why the wart hog ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel ugly.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your possett facial growth
That looks like
after many years.
What's more, it knows
Your nadgers potting shed
Smells of splod wurdler.
Everything under the big dead sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm politicians.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Bee-dubya-ell
Date: 16 Apr 09 - 05:10 PM

Once I had a blue kazoo
One day I dropped it in the loo
And soon my kazoo wasn't blue
It turned a most ungodly hue
The color of an old work shoe
Encrusted with vile viscous goo

It wasn't red nor was it green
Nor puce nor even tangerine
But something somewhere in between
A color that was quite obscene
Like oozings from a ruptured spleen
I'm sure you know just what I mean

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: GUEST,Chongo Chimp
Date: 16 Apr 09 - 05:16 PM

Poetry is the leaven of life,
And it's way damn cheaper than havin' a wife!
When life gets you down and you ain't got a home,
You can always feel better by writin' a poem...
Burmashave!

- Chongo

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Stu
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 06:40 AM

Whelks do roam
on hillsides green
and sing a plaintive song
to molluscs unseen.

Under aragonite housing
they go a-roaming,
across blue rainbows
into the gloaming.

From where, they call
plaintive gastropod airs,
and crawl very slowly
over the limpet stairs.

Whelkishness come now
and praise be!
for you taste fine
when eaten by me.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: GUEST,Poésie de Promenade
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 06:50 AM

There was a young woman from Ealing
Overcome by a peculiar feeling
She rolled on her back
And opened her crack
And pissed right up to the ceiling

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: The Sandman
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 07:19 AM

The Eccles parody tickled my fancy
for all my thoughts did dwell upon nancy.
hark tally ho,in pursuit of some feed.
and is there crumpet still for tea.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 07:47 AM

It's the 42nd this very weekend, so if you fancy...

Poem 193 of 230: THE 35TH MORPETH NORTHUMBRIAN GATHERING – SPRING 2002

Toward Morpeth's Gathering,
    Either side of Great North Road,
Daffodils gleefully showed
    Their stalk-dressing flowering.

And then, at the Gathering,
    Another great flowering
Of English heritage, showed
    Through competitions that glowed
With competent folk-singing,
    Storytelling, bag-piping
(The small-pipes rapidly rode
    By hands, in staccato mode),
Clogdancing and stick-dressing:
    Things that are worth addressing.

From http://walkaboutsverse.sitegoz.com
Or http://blogs.myspace.com/walkaboutsverse

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Amos
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 10:01 AM

WAV certainly brings out a sort of compulsive creativity in folks, huh?
I never would have guessed such flaming mediocrity could go all the way up to eleven.


A

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: s&r
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 12:02 PM

It is Friday today Tomorrow Sat.
The evening sol reflects on the windows opp.
The youth meander up the St. I live at
Watched suspiciously by a cop.
The crumpled paper jetted in my garden
Was once news but now plain thanks EEC
Litter regulationism needs a warden
Since rubbish lines the local sea


Stu

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Bee-dubya-ell
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 12:18 PM

I thought that I would never see
So much dull mediocrity
Assembled in a single place
Excuse me while I hide my face

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Rifleman (inactive)
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 12:20 PM

Two local translations of the same poem, in keeping the the tradition.

flamin mediocrity sky marvel at its muckle
dull depths. tell wor, frances d'ya wondor
why the hairless cat ignores yee? why its
foobly gaak makes yee feel flamingly mediocre.
i gan tell yee, it is worreed by yor scroon-like
facial growth that looks leek a unidentifeed.
what's mare, it knows yoor scroon pottin shed
smells iv that. everythin undor the muckle flamin
mediocrity sky asks why, why d'ya evon botha?
Only the cat knows

and

Flamin mediocrity sky marvel at its muckle dull depths.
tell wor, frances d'ya wondor why the hairless moggy
ignores yee? why its foobly gaak makes yee feel flamingly
mediocre. i gan tell yee, it is worreed by yor scroon-like
facial growth that looks lick a unidentifeed. what's mare,
it knows yoor scroon pottin shed smells iv that. everythin
undor the muckle flamin mediocrity sky asks why,
why d'ya evon botha?
Only the moggy knows.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Amos
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 01:48 PM

No ruts, no wheels, no wagonloads;
Cleaving to the dry middle hump of the road,
Safe in the center of neglect.
A quiet middle, free of intersection
For meetings are always done at the edges.
Minds that live here fear the ditch and hedge
And define their paths by staying away
From all directions. Heaven
is not desired, and the dull middle voice
Goes to eleven.


AHJ

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Bee-dubya-ell
Date: 17 Apr 09 - 07:30 PM

A poet, though he be mediocre,
Is better than a mortgage broker.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: s&r
Date: 18 Apr 09 - 05:39 AM

and cleaner than an engine stoker
and cooler than a red hot poker
more colourful that yellow ochre

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 18 Apr 09 - 05:19 PM

Near Morpeth...

Poem 183 of 230: CRAMLINGTON - AUTUMN 2001

Cramlington:
    Before an
Interview
    At a new
Factory,
    I did see,
By a steam
    In-between
Farm and home,
    On a roam,
Stopping there,
    A brown hare.

From http://walkaboutsverse.sitegoz.com
Or http://blogs.myspace.com/walkaboutsverse

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 19 Apr 09 - 04:49 AM

For what it's worth, folks, I've just decided to change the name of the last piece to "A Brow Hare."

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 19 Apr 09 - 04:50 AM

Or "A Bown Hare", sorry.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 19 Apr 09 - 01:40 PM

Poem 184 of 230: THE QUICK CLUBBERS' TROT IN NEWCASTLE - AUTUMN 2001

Fridays, Saturdays,
    Latish in the night,
Bringing a smile,
    Making quite a sight
Down the steep-sloped Side,
    High on their heels -
Bonny, blithe ladies,
    Done with their meals
Or earlier clubs,
    Seeking the next spot,
And risking it with
    Their quick clubbers' trot.

From http://walkaboutsverse.sitegoz.com (e-scroll)
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Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: The Sandman
Date: 19 Apr 09 - 01:52 PM

mondays ,tuesdays,every day the same
late in the day.

but not being noticed
up the gentle incline
flat footed
worn out old men
who have had nothing to eat,
seeking somewhere to sleep,bed down in shop doorways
in cardboard boxes.

Subject: RE: WalkaboutsVerse Anew
From: Don Firth
Date: 19 Apr 09 - 11:09 PM

Oh, Hell!! Why not?

100

Don Firth (stikes again!)