what is it me that part forgotten
or jangling at the pocket bottom?
I thought I saw myself become a
bit greyer up a long time ago,not now
The minutes went by & I aged &
the lighter sparks of my dashing
splashed & dimmed ,became once
& not here ‘Happy birthday, son’
Of course I recognise O These are
my fingers & so woolf—so fifteen
so thirty, so prone to something
dirty but now scrapping over letters
that won’t fall in line to character
love songs that I can’t pen alone.
or jangling at the pocket bottom?
I thought I saw myself become a
bit greyer up a long time ago,not now
The minutes went by & I aged &
the lighter sparks of my dashing
splashed & dimmed ,became once
& not here ‘Happy birthday, son’
Of course I recognise O These are
my fingers & so woolf—so fifteen
so thirty, so prone to something
dirty but now scrapping over letters
that won’t fall in line to character
love songs that I can’t pen alone.
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