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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Feb 2020
Agents fees
About a million years ago and probably longer now.
The town hall clock which still ran on Victorian time,
caked with grime and the droppings of
raggedy arsed urchins
struck nine.
I was watching breakfast television,
something new or was when it was new
now
it's getting old and like the milk on the kitchen
drainer turning sour.
Sunday
the righteous pray,
I pay lip service
and
they charge me ten percent
which I suppose isn't too much
to stay in touch.
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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G Alan Johnson
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