Tuesday, 31 May 2016

Flicking though a magazine in the tree surgeon's.

Them gnarled and twisted
'thritic bones
Point out skyward
'next t' people's homes
And finger through
All Goya's tomes.

They prick the sky
Wi' blunted digits
Awaiting surgeon's
Coffin kits, it's
Sapacios lids. It's
Busy business.

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