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Elevenses in the Hell House

Here I am.
I’m lost again.
Silly Me.
What must you think?
I never seem to find my way.

‘Silly you’ you say.
‘oh well, have some tea’.
Try again tomorrow, yes
‘it happens’, you say.
Then you see the blood,
and broken bones and,
‘Silly you’ you said,
‘you always do such silly things’.

Same time the morrow?
Tea and sympathy.
Sympathy for silly me.
I’ll break my bones,
and spill my blood.
Have some tea you’ll say.
Make it ok.

Tea and sympathy.
Fixes everything.
Broken bones and minds.
Tea full of my blood,
and broken bones.
But there is no limit,
to the sympathy,
you seem willing to expend on me.

I’m tired.
Go to bed now,
aftertea and sympathy.
‘Feel better now?’
‘Yes’ I say, tea and sympathy,
fixes everything.
‘Thanks’ I say.
It’s always appreciated,
at some level, beyond,
the lake of blood,
and broken bones.

Anytime you need it.
Come to me,
for tea and sympathy.
to my horror home of broken bones,
upon the lake of blood.
Milk and lies,
with your tea and sympathy?
Or will you take it dry like me?

Filed under: Poetry

About the Author

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Lazy Peon. Hardware Monkey. Real-ale Bore. Stupid Mick.

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