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Old Jumper

Everyone has an old woollen
they pull over their heads.
Its thin sepia stained threads
barely stretch across bloated flesh
of each long dead six pack.
It hangs like an old coal sack,
fluff dangling from elbow holes
blown about by a breeze
easing over back yard walls.
Strands shimmer,
shift in rising heat.
Pull hard to prise it off.
Sweat trickles as the sun tries
to steam it dry.
It lies in a crumpled heap.
Will it last one more Winter?
Be reborn to keep you warm
after sailing through Autumn’s storms?

2 Aug 17

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Larry the poet Lark
 — 9

My old Woolen I beat your Mom with.
 — percocet

you are stretching for appraisal.
 — percocet

I would beat you with a reborn!
 — percocet