A magic pudding
I’m a bit dismayed
I often write about war
now this peace & quiet
the waist-high snow-line
leads me high into Tibet
& except for the hundred
wheels of no impression
why should I be angry
I’ve spun it all my life
(how many has it been)
the ice melts of a season
soldiers shout in the streets
convoys leave one day
history what a con
yessir just a vapour
and never leave the table till yr full up to the muzzle
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