drunkard bay

A Poem by winter;lyra

b***h faced days
at the bay with the broken pole
holes in my boat but twelve thick hoes lost at the shore
my children eat fried cockroach
but on the field i c**k roaches
post modern doses of sodomized notions
of the most notorious poultice
that goes in the same pose as most tricks

in doctrine, out in the field with a burnt bible
cigar in hand and no hope for the future
ad hominem at your most holy

days in the odd lease