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Weasel
Poems
Dec 2015
Nothin' Left
Nothin' left but empty pockets
And socks wit holes upon each heel.
All the good fings are swept away
Like a rotten banana peel.
Wit nowhere else to turn -
I turn to God.
Wit empty pockets
And holes in my socks -
I turn to God.
{ Weasel }
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Poem 29
© The Weasel
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Written by
Weasel
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