Saturday, October 19, 2013

V. 2, #204: October 19, 2013 ("Soliloquy at The Slaughtered Lamb")

Why can't they just stay off the fucking moors?
I warn them every time they stop to rest
and have a pint. But no, they clear the doors
and head straight off the path, like they know best.

It's not like someone living in this town
would know when it's not safe to be abroad.
You see me out there when the sun goes down?
Fuck no! But hell, I'm just a rustic sod.

Go on, explore the moonlit, soggy plains
and laugh at me, your superstitious host.
We townsfolk will collect your torn remains
and send them to your mum next Royal Post.

Melt down the silver, tally up the gold,
and turn the locks. Christ, this is getting old.

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