Ye Olde Went in His Sleep at Least

I am stupiding with age
ye fresh arterial blood clot
is blackening on the stage

i’m liquoring to eejit
ye povo amygdala
pickling to a walnut

i’m shrunkening to sundown
ye don’t even embig
in imagination

ye braine is gathered with bits of twine
how I don’t but know it’s mine
criss-cross gartering divine
accident or design
mighty fine

better out continent than in
may be

but let me die awake
spitting clueless gruel
stood on the painful table
not done yet
only my own stupid
flickering still
but mine.

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