February 17, 2009
Poetry 2
People turn to poison quick as lager turns to piss
Sweethearts are physically sick every time they kiss
If deadly nightshade is your flower and manslaughter your meat
Spend a year in a couple of hours -- on Beasley Street.
In the cheap seats, where murder breeds someone runs out of breath
Sleep is something he don't need, a sneak preview of death
A sociologist's paradise: each day is a repeat
Uneasy, sleazy, greasy, queasy, beastly Beasley Street.
Posted by matt at February 17, 2009 12:38 AM
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Oh how we Anglophiles love a bit of JCC.
Posted by: robin at February 17, 2009 1:52 PM