This morning I saw you getting married, white dress and all, a mockery again, to a degree less immature but mockery at last. You were plotting for a better future when yesterday you ran away from bad decisions. And it's ok, it was good to see you again, broken nose and all, high heels for boots, squeezing me into your diary with your Chessur smile. I guess I'll keep seeing you on Sundays, the saddest day for working class, trudging over pebbles, sand and nuclear bombs.
Published by Ean Kotard
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