My head’s full of scrap, the clanking mass of.
A full-tide of worries shifting uneasily in the attic
has the feet of my stomach pedalling frantic.
Prostate and thyroid every dis way and dat dodging
the darts, and fool of a brain flopping with the derring-do
of a body that never had an egg-cup of bravery,
asking which way all the errant arrows are pointing,
and my head this minute with hair-net on the inside.
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