© Chris Port, 2010, martygull.co.uk.
All rights reserved.
Oh spare a thought for Marty Gull.
His fault was he cared too well.
Her hair’s ardent lull
on hardened skull
- the quiet charms of hell.
And spare a quid. Poor Tippi Marsh.
She never did come to much.
The light from the stars,
so bright and so harsh
- the sharp of a heart, untouched.
Now spare the time but not the rod.
The staff are hard to find.
The sun’s follow spot,
the violet of god
will tan each man’s behind.
A soul must be restored again.
A hole in the rain will fill
with tears and with sun,
‘til all fears are done,
until then, until, until…
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