The Bored Gazelle

I stand here poised Like a bored gazelle about to leap Not in the Serengeti But leaning against a bin Near Frankfurt It is a wrought iron bin Of fine craftsmanship But all I can smell is piss The piss of a thousand dogs Over one hundread years Marking their patch And having no thought For this man Who would have his senses offended By their ammonia picket fence. Perhapse I will move

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