Surfing the tables, burning
A pocketful of puff,
Rough, off the cuff,
And curling, the table turning.
Rolling in dough, for show,
Encrusting the rings,
Every day's things
On the street-worn skid-row.
And there's beef and a fat reef,
The wisps caressing the lung
And lines lined up among
The brief relief from the grief.
Away, so far, and gone,
Shone, like the black sun,
Silent, like a shooting gun,
Ignorant to any black swan.
Awake, then, enslaved and slumbered,
Awake from clapped in iron to designed in Zion,
From strapped in to wired for the pyre,
Unchained, unhinged, unencumbered.
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