white and smelly
ripe pustules blood oozing
and the old fisherman snoozing
or the less circumspect might say boozing
his head resting in the belly of the beast
and thinking about the future not in the least
flipping through files of the past from feast to feast
skipping past the frequent lean days as from west to east
crossing through the red sunset's meridian into a shining hazy bay
that slyly promises each day to be filled with bread filled with yeast
and his white whiskers quiver as the rattle of death
escapes his nostrils bit by bit with each heady breath.
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