Poetry

Death Cleaning

Death Cleaning[761][4].jpg

I’m happy there are laws,

    I’m sick of all this crime.

They keep me out of trouble,

    Keep me worried all the time.

Sick of all these happy people,

    Huddled around their dinner table.

Blood rushes in my temple,

    Can hardly eat speak or pray.

 

Sodden side roads with speed radars.

     Swell flowing undertaken down up-river.

Without laws there’d be no survivors,

     There’d be no ceiling fans,

Or surveillance cameras.

 

Without law there is art.

Without art there is law.