Pathetics Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Pathetics
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She dropped me like a boiling spud
as if I were a bowl of mud.
It is, they say, a great mirage
to wait for soap enriched lavage.
But all the trouble she went through
it was not meant to be for you.
She had forgotten by midday
that you had never gone away.
Friday, February 3, 2006
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9/23/2024 5:12:36 AM # 1.0.0.1119
