Clover Dawn

Sombrero tans for somber kids,
we artists of the stethoscope
spit Machiavellian rhymes
to live another day beyond the nail.
Valley of chapels
slap jaws to ring out death row
verses,
guide me oh foul great deceiver
mad running madness to chicken stabs
and vertigo.
Hail thy mad.
Heaven beneath a ground
not fit for men of soul
yet fitter than a demon bone...

©Steven Francis poems 2013

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