Here We Are
Here we are, coming to terms with mediocrity.
You with a menthol fag, me a Bloody Mary
devoid of lemon, celery, a half-arsed job.
We scribe a word or two on Dickens,
then break to wander as two clouds
of analytic prowess.
You precipitate, I collect, my laptop
full of inane ideology.
You put out and I receive:
At your dining table
the Pap of Life
is served.
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