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Loser takes all


Below the blackening sky go I
warily wearily wobbly o
frightened to live and frightened to die
toll bell toll
sick as a parrot covered in glue
languid as leeks in the depth of a stew
who would be me, except possibly you?
loser takes all

Doom is the name of the game we play
warily wearily wobbly o
doom by the bushel an acre a day
toll bell toll
death is a mercy so sing it again
wrists in the bath or a surfeit of men
show me a pain and I'll show you a pen
loser takes all

Moan it and mix it. Trowel it on thick
warily wearily wobbly o
fate is a pheasant with salt on its dick
toll bell toll
cry me to sleep with my head on a sack
stuffed with the rotting remains of a yak
call me an artist - god knows I'll be back
loser takes all

Jester
The picture was made by my brother in 1998, using 100 year old lead pencils and watercolours found in our attic. It seemed to suit the dismal mood of my poem.

Today has brought another few inches of snow. The day after tomorrow, I'm supposed to be travelling to London with a view to flying back to the Qatar on Saturday, after which more normally oriented blog posts will no doubt resume. That's if the trains and planes are moving, of course.
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