Friday, April 28, 2006

Cancer

In a pool of urine he sat
Torn pants full of the homeless stink
White-grey hair a tangled up mat
And too drunk on whiskey to think.

Straight past him we strode looking down
Crisp shirts fresh in our lawyer suits
Heads held up by the pensive frown
Red silk ties and black leather boots.

It came to light soon thereafter
Since man’s great plague was killing me
That your piss drunk but of laughter
Might see me die by thirty-three.

And though the old bum’s life be grim
Still I’d trade my place with him.

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