He drops the rest of his one
Daily smoke
On the cold January ground.
Puts his glove back on
And gazes at the crane,
With distant eyes under the brim
Of his orange hard hat.
Then, through one of those smiles
That make any bad day better,
He turns to me and speaks.
*Always eat the yellow snow, Sverre.
It could be beer...*
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
He drops the rest of his one
Daily smoke
On the cold January ground.
Puts his glove back on
And gazes at the crane,
With distant eyes under the brim
Of his orange hard hat.
Then, through one of those smiles
That make any bad day better,
He turns to me and speaks.
*Always eat the yellow snow, Sverre.
It could be beer...*
