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Wet Dog and Cigarette Smoke

Published on 21st June 2016 by in Poetry

It’s cold,

it’s raining,

and I’m not complaining

but I wish to make

an official complaint.

 

My bus was late

and so I was late,

and I hate to tempt fate

but maybe lately

I’ve been playful,

and this daydream nation

is staying rainy

on the first official day

of summer.

 

My waterproof coat

isn’t waterproof,

and the exuberant youth

is fully ruthless,

and my tooth has got the truth of it,

and the roof of my mouth

is washed out by mouthwash

and partly cloudy,

with a chance of

abscesses.

 

These days,

I’m a fountain of hygiene,

and my body’s clean

like the evening wind,

and when I get dirt

beneath my fingernails,

I chew them off

completely.

 

These days,

I own my own aroma,

and your life is a coma

you fall over in.

 

I’m trying to make the world spin

like a washing machine.

 
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