A hole in the ground.
A post in hand,
asks the question,
once more, again.
Should I flee
or go away,
to a life
of lonely exile?
Not for me.
Not my style,
for it won't
make me smile.
A hole in the ground.
A post in hand,
asks the question,
once more, again.
Should I flee
or go away,
to a life
of lonely exile?
Not for me.
Not my style,
for it won't
make me smile.