The painter

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The painter

I could of been a million things, a billion diry words
the filth, the scum, the fly that craves, i could of been most anything
could of been a smiling pervert, candied dog in palm of hand
reaching out like trebel hooks, catching little kids in sand
dismal look in jelly eyes, spindly fingers rubbing dirt, grunting like the butcher man, a rapist chasing skirt
or what about a pissing lemur, suspended curdled in rank junky air
standing erect with rubber gloves, slapping mustard from a horses ass
buicks in battle,infernal sleazy sent, causes the evils in everyman to wince, to tick , to kick

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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

Ezwide’s Poems (1)

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