way back at london

the dark, wet flowers blossom

for my great desolation angel

with the teardrops from god,

calling us to london


the underwold hounds

howling and moaning 

grunting and groaming 

calling us to london


meet me by the river,

the wasted wanderer

waiting for the pink petals


falling from the bough

by the foggy, glowing moon

drinking coffee and telling jokes

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