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Monday, 1 March 2010

Red Mist

Oh dear, was he loosing it..
He wasn’t happy..
He wasn’t happy at all..
Oh dear he wasn’t happy..

As he stood it occurred..
To him they had cocked up..
Bullocks, he wasn’t happy..
He was ready to lose his marbles..

Where he stood was shaky..
T' earth beneath him moved..
Vigorously like epileptic..
Not caused by t' earth’s thundering crust..
But by the volcano erupting in him..

Did I see, the raging bull in him..
With blood shot eyes..
He was out for t' kill..
Let no man stand his way..
He was losing his marbles, I say..

What is there to be said..
To a red mist, on t' verge's edge..
To calm rough waters..
Oh dear he wasn’t happy..

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