In this poem I don’t speak to myself,
But to me, oh me! Man... to the time
When I drunk myself to myself,
Was so smothered in my-self’s self,
Me, selfish shellfish in Dranky-town
Bric-a-bracked the words in haven’s slum.
But aye man! I tricked the trickster, ‘t was some fool,
And drank myself to myself to honour myself,
But she didn’t snatch me!
The old limping rag,
Aye! Just as in the stories
My grandmother rehearsed
In front of us, maybe for her,
For herself, for whom was she really...(?)
I also faced it and
Got away, thanks to wits,
When only a boy,
Just as in stories
I got rid myself from death itself,
Myself from myself,
“From that death we bequest on ourselves”,
I thought once in history class,
That death we bequest
Joyously without giving it
One
Single
Thought
Beyond.
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