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Blue Monsoon
by Terry Brinkman
Irish Blue Monsoon poetry
Boston Blue- Rooms at Ten Shillings a week
Sun seldom shines here
Sea cook wears rumpled stockings
Ax to grind drinking ships rum
Steams of coffee blew all day
Not worthy her blue eyes
Pre-nativity post-mortality fallen
Candle she stuck in a bottleneck
Not for her to horrify
Last flow of Champaign’s pee down the toilet
Like a burr sticking in side
Copyright reserved. Please do not reproduce without consent.