Treasonable Doubt

by grimbeau



Here comes the sun to have a laugh,

a snigger, a check it out, a gloat at

little lives playing themselves out in safe,

unhappy scripts:

polishing, dusting, painting crypts.

Rolling tiffs, thinking cliffs, wind blowing quiffs,

In skipper’s beards, fucking weird.

And I sit in judgement. How fucking weird is that?

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