Andy Conner
A Little Whine
I’m an empty bottle
My thinking is cheap plonk
My mind is corked
My face is rouge
The paper remains blanc
My words are of poor vintage
My rhymes have no bouquet
Believe me
What I sediment
I’ve got nothing to say
When I poured out of bed this morning
I felt I’d never write again
So I’m grateful
For this bin end gripe
Of the grape against the grain
Page(s) 4
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