A calf stares at the shop doors while the man hugs the railings for spurious solace.
Picking away at a dead rat..
a grimy crow tries to be Zen.
Green for me and blue for you;
It is the birth place for dead crows who gloat at sleeping beggars.
Childish rhyme and dead verse look good on paper.
I do not like you on paper but I would rather play the tambourine at your funeral.
Fake blood smudges the walls of the broken school.
The poet is desperate to be heard.