A Few Tiny Poems

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I sit amid ruins,
on a pile of rubble,
seeking out the moment
when we burst our bubble.

***

the fuse is cut for a fast burn
pot-bellied keg too big around
leaking powder from every seam
all’s well ’til metal sparks aground

***

There was a young man who played bass,
he was quite hideous in his face.
But, still, he got paid,
and nightly was laid.
Last laugh to the player of the bass.

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