I can hear the siren song from lisping garlic breath

We all sink
restrained in pot holes
of sinking mud

under my heel
I can feel the sorrow of the last writer
He wasn’t so fortunate
it’s far easier
To sit

The blood of Christ
And the sermon
We used
to roll this joint

rush towards the end
There’s a road
Off of Sammish way
Where you can see the writers sinking
On each corner

There are some small craters
Where the greats used to be
I can see Kerouac crater
Right between
Steinbeck and Poe

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