comfort ye them

an octet

for
hearing,
they hear not.
else, the grieving,
calling from the dust
into which  their  pissing
leaves its sepsin on the breath,
would not fall on such blank pity.
a l l  their platitudes  and  witty
taunts consider zilch of death.
they  contemplate kissing
asses as a m u s t,
self-deceiving,
piling phartz
on being
poor.

© Copyright 2019 June 30
by Clyve A. Bowen♫