And there’s a poor boy at the river
Who’s pouring poison in his wine;
But, when his will begins to quiver,
He takes it as a sign.

And all the streets are full of horses,
But they’re not going anywhere;
They’re in the thrall of foreign forces
So offer up a prayer.

And all the houses of the gentry
Both in the town and on the land
Are guarded by a lonely sentry,
A gun in every hand.

And every single vacant lot
Is proof that life’s gone pear-shaped – not.

Photo by Jossuha Théophile on Unsplash

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