An
ovate
bloke gathered
his thoughts. Patching
new holes with colourful language,
high brown pate to once smooth face.
But what of his daylights, shining before him, slithy and elusive.
He sang sadly, a broken ballad, how do you spin a ripping yarn,
and keep standing, cool and charmed, run free spirited and wild, wholly fresh,
winsome child, but somehow dodge the sting of salt, how to
sit this walleyed colt, from Alice to Humpty Doo, none from
Kingaroy would do. With Buckley's he stayed,
sat there in the heat,
folded and beat,
his clarity
melting
away.

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