You'll not find me...
Cause I’ll be scrubbing floors, on all fours, like a slave,
scraping melted candle wax from that table cloth –a
hand-me-down from a great-great-in-law, who gave
it to her daughter, who then gave it to her son’s fiancée,
whose dowry consisted of some dead gold miner’s cave–
wondering where the hell all that gold is today.
Dead dreams, squandered fortunes, speak with a lisp
and sweaty forehead –blow at a wet wisp.
Do not grieve in my absence, there are others to deprave;
do not grieve in the night, for their sheets will be crisp.
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zz
[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited May 26, 2002).]
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