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What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
Grim Chip
The atmosphere is thick and heavy, humid,
Saturated, sick with syrupy sycophancy,
Obsequious drops fall heavy from the heavens
Into the gutter, down the drain.
The thunder rolls, the guns salute,
Their lordships and their graces
Put on heirs apparent.
I can’t stand the reign.
Grim Chip writes poems when he's not working for a living and being an active trade unionist.
Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter – wveditor@gmail.com
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