Sat in the street
just after ten past three
City, city, come sober
or you'll stumble over skyscrapers.
Fortunately, powerlines will hold your hands up.
They know you can't anymore.
Just surrender.
Eariler that night, someone had said:
'Surely, you're Lady Luck!'
Five Bombay cities on ice
like her feet later on
made out of liquorice straps
bending and twisting
bone not breaking.
Her brain had been leaking all night,
now the snakes could just smell her.
Wrapped around vials of
green and grim,
all gold drained from her.
An imbroglio of works
in inky mess.
Henceforth, days after:
people thought of less.
Shame really,
ain't got nothing but
clear.
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