sent to a drunk girl a while ago, and now here. Now, destitute me is going to go out and eat before i have to sell myself for a song and a crust of bread. Pays better than retail!!

***

grindstones make the bone meal,
bone meal makes the bread;
it's time for toast and the chipper ghost
babbles 'round me head,

here is a bill for breathing,
here is a toll for tea,
a tax on a laugh and a charge for a kiss,
And a mortgage on the sea.

We dance on the buses to buy our time,
the pittance does it proud,

Though living wage is killing chain;
And the uniform is a shroud.

Put a flower on my tomb, my child,
for I am dead and gone,
for hearts and hands have whitely bled,
and simpered, meekly on.

<<agé chose>>

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