The Blood’s Still Dry


I am the Tambourine man

Wildly dancing in the street

For the change falling on the sidewalk

Through the hole in your pocket

I am the clown

With the flattened, depressed face paint

Preying off of the sympathy

Of the man in

Heaven’s dirty backalley

I am the hateful damned

Makin minute fractions of your minimum wage

And still fighting equal pay

And dem liberal’s ideas of


I am the American Soldier

Alone and lost in the dense forest

Rifle pointed with the barrel in my chest

And the bayonet penetrating my soul

I am the slot machine

Putting in quarters

Winning words, flowing from my bowels

But this poem isn’t it

I didn’t win the jackpot today

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