« Forlorn”

He was proud of the length of his brown
It was brown
It was long
It was his own

It took pride of place in a glass case
People came
People saw
People were conquered

He told them of how it came to be
Many a prune
On a wet afternoon
In June

It shone golden in the evening light
It had a gleam
Seemed to steam
An arsehole’s dream

But someone down the road had claimed nine
His was eight
He thought great
But now out of date

The news had spread and no-one ever came
The turd he’d borne
Would not adorn
He was, alas, forlorn


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