FROM MY PHONY
TENNESSEE
'Take this knife,' said I, 'it's used.
Care not I for force and fuse, it's
only in the eye; and I should win
this cape, you say, but never wonder
why?' Things like little minefields
scatter scratch and catch and turf.
This sandman cometh back again,
but things get only worse. As I want
to see around me, the obstacles,
perverse and daunting hold me
lively, dancing patter traffic's
curse. The blind man never sees
dawn but never sees evening either
and the dark sun going down brings
forth another hearse - life lively
withers to its own interment, broad
fields the cemeteries willow anew and
seed one growth with only Death's
fertile flesh eloping beneath soiled
solid toiled tired grass and mesh
between two fragrant after-lives:
bring the ladle ! bring the knife !
I hear them calling ! 'we were
climbing ! now we're falling!...'
climbing ! now we're falling!...'
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