What the Hotel Saw
On the Abstract March
He'd found Somebody's Diary,
After being kicked in the Balkans,
by Mi.
'Marriage, Fren
Is Selected Seasons' said
The Permanently Blanc
Emperor's Expressionism.
'Why the Hell Not?'
Said the Painter to the
Other Revalueshanary,
'True Faith is the New Dope'.
Where there were only
Three Clicks Left in the
Amorous Heart of Radetzky -
Caught Running Poems across
The Tomb of the Hampshire Suburbs.
In the Darkness
Of the Cabaret Clubs, with their
Modern Ornamentation,
he was Bard,
from The Art of Discourse.
The Weaver's only Crime,
was at Weakeners' Night, on the Tiles,
down the Wires,
Spring Gobbing Into the Savoy,
Direct.
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