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Beware gratitude!

March 8, 2019
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Give us a prophet

 

The cosmos is a battlefield

a prophet will be king

The dark hills harbour villages

where none but the downs boy sings

 

The southerly it comes and goes

shivering the mountain spine

we hold our hats and turn away

to catch the five past nine

 

the wind embraces trees in sway,

the wandering wounded wait

a Dick Smith pamphlet passes by

takes flight to heaven’s gate.

 

If we can’t find the bugger soon

the rumours might attack

and pierce our burdened barricades

when no one has our back

 

Defend us now from kindness

let the trumpet pierce the grey

for the angels have been sleeping

at the heating of the day

 

If the prophet is not willing

give us hoods and let us brood

lest the smell of bread unleash for us

a flood of gratitude

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