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Bring the Band
by Gregory Wilde  /  poetry  /  27 Sep 2007

I'm sick, Cybill.
I can't move my legs,
The music in the parlour,
Won't stop crying,
Nothing is stopping,
Me from ending time.

I'm dying there,
And it's not a crime,
I've seen enough,
Already gone, Cybill.
I've stopped lying,
They don't want me here.

Last one, Cybill,
Before I go and bleed,
It's not dark yet,
I can almost see,
All our children,
In sleep.

I've lost the sense,
To remember my prayers,
For when you where here,
I'm going, going, gone,
& to the men w/out women,
It's a sin to love no one.

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