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Mid-December Grey Blues
Cage door barroom philosophy monger,
Doldrums drool face mumbling slumber,
Mid-December grey blues punching in the number,
Time-clock government schlock occupational plumber.
Wage slave engaged, displaying all his feathers,
Remember all the good times amidst foul weather,
Tethered to the suburbs, kvetching all the way,
To the train of discipline, before it rendered you a slave.
Subject to projection of a thousand different faces,
Racing in the alley, Janus had nothing on this display,
Now a worm without a purpose dumpster diving for dinner,
While scrounging your way to the destruction of your liver.
Homeward bound stories weave tales of deprivation,
Degradation and frustration, machinations of a nation,
Middle class grass and lower class booze,
Cruising down the highway with the radio on snooze.
Good times sunny bunnies and summertime halcyon,
School day torture high school and sour milk calcium,
Passing by a Siren and calling out her name,
Video games and praying to gods whose vocation was to maim.
Violent obsessions yet peaceful tendencies,
Bringing a close to the poem and the reliving of memories.
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