For Crying Out…

Who the hell cares

about titles and labels

and anarchy and whether

the poet laureate’s muse descends

for royal events?

She’s a woman

human and free to speak

spread hell’s cares

in verse labelled duty

anytime anywhere.

You gossipy ranters

pull in your tripe

you’re ripe with worms

and the holes trip

through your common

sense like wandering sewers.

Carry on Carol Ann.

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