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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



a line, (a blue one)


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