Thursday, January 17, 2008

Blood Moon

I never wrote the pimple on your nose
Was redder than a fire truck. What I wrote
Was that you might receive an angry note
From groups of stinking drunkards who suppose
You stole yours from a man who came to blows
With a two-thirds-full bottle in his coat,
A ghost, two happy kangaroos, a stoat,
A fainting train conductor, and a rose.

It's very red, I did insist, quite red,
Magenta even, crimson, bright maroon,
The colour of what has been called "blood moon"
Or maybe simply blood. That's what I said,
And some day, many years after we're dead,
Your nose will be remembered, you baboon.

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