DIDN'T DIE BY
TRYING
It's the dirty side of rain in London, piles of it
all falling down. Umbrellas, no help at all, as
the North Sea itself comes home. You can
take all the silver in Britain and throw it
into your lake of lies, for all I care. Upstairs
where the haberdasher guy lives, the steam
is smoking off the radiators, while he tries
to dry his clothes; still wet-soaked from
walking home. I never came this far for
so little at all. Like a wartime style with
bread and jelly, the sweet-treacle story
you peddle sticks to my hands.
-
Outside, at the curb, some twisty little
London cab sits waiting at rest for
me to come aboard. I will and I
shall, and I'm gone now as well.
Never let it be said I didn't
die by trying.
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