poetry critical

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Simon Watts (1946-1962)

Threw large jokes to tiny pools,
blagged through vacuums creased with laughter.
Hid a.m. then bunked off school,
potato pie from Bill the baker.
Ladies undies, fingers hot,
lush dept. not Mark or Spencer.
Furtive raid on complaints box,
smirked at note signed Mr. Percy.
"Dear Sir, imagine my dismay,
a hole in my silk lingerie."
Perc returned, grabbed lapels
"Little bastards go to hell."
Arrived back home, sweating cobs,
sucked cider lollies with Simon Watts.

30 Aug 10

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