Twenty Eight Days Behind Alexander - Poem by raster punk
It's a weak harmony, where found,
to this smashed Buddha's dismay.
You see this one is much too round,
with one hair that is way too grey.
Bullets find six degrees of freedom,
Doves fall to their wingless death.
Rust and decay in a dusty kingdom,
Shoves and whistles, a joy not left.
Consumption is a wayward calendar
but reduction can't destroy my faith.
Twenty eight days behind Alexander
Within thirteen months, we'll be safe.
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