The Scenes Of The Shrimp Festival First Weekend In May,2010 Poem by chris bowen

i suppose the rose does endeavor, kiss me whenever.a feather for writing, the whiting are biting but i am sighting something coming up the street.me and my heart beats the picture to scripture.the ripped girl, her fancy an ansy boy, he not the joy she thought she employed.the boil of shrimp for the right said, pimp, in the skins and the thought of him, under a tent, songs and bikes for rent.we wish we dish like this, we miss the days, when centre street dont plays, its heart out.boiled peanuts out of a cart, out of a heart, the man, the book mark, downtown, he can be found.to lounge around the palace, and hold no malice.for the talons.