Swing a throw, and I know,
No-one cares where it goes,
Who it hurts, lord only knows.
So sit with me, sit with your peers,
Hold out your bowls and catch all the tears,
Sup deeply, drink without a fear,
Supplies are aplenty, there's enough to last for years.
Land a blow, and I know,
Means to ends are only woes,
For the reapers of what one sows.
So sit with your sister, sit with your brother,
Singing softly, hymn of a child and mother,
We're drinking beer, its tastes like no other,
When we are out of drink we all stand to recover.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 3 - Vaudevillian
PoetryThe "journey to middle age" part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 24-28. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
