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Posted by MFish

My arms ache from hanging on,
To that pillar of sanity that
Controls our daily lives.
It has been said, by those
Who supposedly know,
That Poets usually succumb,
To the degradations of alcohol,
Lose their grip on reality
And become insane or die,
At an early age.
I am well on my way to
Becoming an accomplished drinker
And feel, that it is only a matter
Of time before sanity deserts
Me or my liver quits,
And then it's over.

Note! This was originally written approximately 40 years ago.

No central heat,
no central air.
Just an oil heater
in the living room,
that was only on
if there was company.
The living space
was in the kitchen
where the huge wood
stove was sitting.
The first chore,
in the morning,
was to remove the lid
with a tool,
put in paper
and wood, for fuel.
Touch the paper
with a match,
replace the lid,
open the draft
and soon the heat
was coming fast.
The stove was iron
with a big oven,
where pies and cakes
would be forth coming.
Some pots on the rear
flat top of the stove,
kept items quite warm,
almost all the day.
Potatoes, vegetables
some meat, would
go into those pots
to cook away,
until dinner time.
That's something I
recall, from long ago,
when life was simple
as we listened
to the radio.

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