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Thursday, 17 May 2012


Chewing a wasp
Does not quite grasp
The grim enjoyment of his face.
Calciated, the visage opens
And his stalagmite teeth bark forward orders.
His folded nose, stately
And bespectacled -
Casting truculent shadows.
When that mouth turns upwards
It must creak like ancient mills.
They surely don't make faces like this one anymore.