Thursday, December 9, 2010

Azure Lunar Moon (An Ode to New England)

Gashes and scrapes, hot water, duct tape
The Northern Air falls upon
the bustling townies with their New England outer shell,
who soon may walk on a pond

The mammals retire, and so does my bliss
My hands are chill-wind-kissed;
The winged go to Hell but New England they'll miss
Keep an eye on the time on yer wrist

Soon a bright blanket cast over the land
Frozen under the sun and over the sand
Reminds a good New England man
of things he does not understand

Pour me 'cup a' potato
Cook me a plate a' tea
A winter in New England hills
will chill you to your knee

The cubs are in their cardigans,
And the mother licks her wounds
Crescent shows the dark side
of the azure lunar moon

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