honey slipped roof, down to the dead pan wrattling gutters,
green in plastic and moss, old pigs strutting,
rippling fat rolls of cash from dealers,
Fairies dancing to the sparks of their dire flints,
Kids with tongues for madam sugar,
Poor honey, only misses me,
Nothing to do with the grin of ga-ga land.
Ring around his finger,
Chain around his heart,
His pocket full of posies,
We all come down.
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