A. A. Gill

Why did you die on me? Where are all the good guys gone?

In memory you live on.

Some more or less good remain.

The rest give me a pain.

Oh God above, Hellfire and brimstone would be a change.

Your cat has mange.

Brain transplants all around and replacement hearts, send them please.

I’m on my knees.

Where are the trees?

In times like these.

We need performing fleas.

I liked your line, A. A., about someone speaking like a duchess in a poorhouse.

Jazz music in the whorehouse.

Still the Sun shines, sometimes.

Tich Ennis

10th May, 2017


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