Angry Strings Ring

And here I sit among the inside, outsideThe currents off their death fragrant veins and skins, At the steeple of vice and den of honest sin, A man in another's skin as I scratch my backside.

I linger over the taste of decay and thyme leaf, The suspendered barman renders abolition, As folk blues flat bills play their soul division Obsolete, the harmonica smacks teeth.

Another whisky sour in, I understand. Maslow is in the fiddle, in bottles and gin, The first class sufferer, by trade, can play.

Heart break hits the white man just as hard, His sorrow as clean as a clear sieve and sleeve, Tatooed in a bright moment, inflamed.