Back then, the man-woman thing, it was different
The past is on another planet
Porridge, Toast, Dad at the sink
St David's, Catholics, every one of the bastards
Straw Hats
Corpus Christi, White as Virgins, charcoal, red
We had no choice but try
The thorns go in. Most come out
PARROT
I thought I knew my accent, talked in prose
We knew our place. No we KNEW our place
The smell of Focaccia
False echoes, mistaken paths
I liked the blues for a while, and harmonicas
BRASS
So, OK, which of us is free?
On the street where you live
Pack up your troubles and all that
We will need a translator
I am my right hand man, and my assistant
God will be along later, meanwhile...
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