Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Manna, Treacherous Sky
Poor chap, that tramp β
his beauty
confiscated
by filth;
Left to pray mindless
ly in the gutter,
in arrears
to the street;
At church for his tea-and-two-slices
his offering but
a burned-up blade
of grass and
still he prayed;
O, heaven, my galoshes
are glummed,
my ears beaten
by duns;
O, keep me,
even though β
