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It's A Living

I dig graves
with pick and shovel
and fits of deranged imagination

from sun-up
every day
'til darkness hovers my shoulders

then, spooked
I scoot
quick as a chicken in the thistles

my invented stories
(I don't whistle)
scare me stupid and spry

my knack for the macbre
may be unmatched

I'm a really creepy guy


nah, you're just a jealous guy. what does that have to do with your poem? absolutely nothing, I just happened to be listening to Lennon.


love your stuff, Al!

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