Friday, 12 April 2013

In Mem. W.S.


In Mem. W.S.

Wallace, you’re all washed up,
There’s a bow on the top of your head,
Like an Easter egg.
No more will your jaw drop at the effrontery
of life’s claims.
Weeping minions are shredding flimsies
And the dead eyes of box files
gaze implacably down.

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