Advertising Dear Air

A voice calling from the blue
recalls a race that no one won
when every step weighs a ton
call it Heavy Avenue,

When the chequered flags are waved too late
A fleet of cabs jam the kerbs to waive their fares
Then the rain knows not to hesitate
While all the cigarette girls smoke unawares,

The radio blares more bleary ruse
About some tax, some troops or law
Your doctored sigh is nursing a bruise
Try to relax the same old saw,

Is cutting through our stacks of bones
In all this dust there must be coughing
Pick up your handcuff telephones
And call the makers of your coffin,




Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 614 times
Written on 2014-01-23 at 20:57

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