Hand Me My Blindfold

 

Every stamp on the ballot.

Puts another to the gallows.

Watching our heads swinging bobbing singing madly

vanished in the near distant regret what you got.

Marking the spot job-lot forget-me-not.

Sees the executioner’s face connect by no trace to the place we’re firmly good at looking at

from the other.

That’s the trouble.

An implicit health emphatic welch of syphilitic wealth.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

For not saying no when the bell tolled.

Lying when you don’t know how to say you don’t know how to say it.

With no respect to the effect of the tragic.

Save your ink and your blot for when it’s your head on the block.

To attack and to mock

those what run to the rock and say rock please hide me.

Foolishly believing they have nothing to learn.

And so you see it seems

that they never learn nothing.

 

Greg Fiddament

 


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