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Wobbly on his feet

Smokey's out from his porch
the smell of magnolia resplendid,
unfinished fried okra with cornmeal
and a smouldering clay pipe,
maybe too much hooch.
He ain't fully composed,
a bit wonky on the ground.
Those special damsels are nowhere
to be seen
maybe his portly silhouette goes
to a finer delicacy elsewhere.

4 Oct 13

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Go to the top of the class with this finely wrought poem
 — larrylark