She always lied that one
A right mad lying cow
Slipping the stuff out bit by bit
The good stuff now, not the rubbish
She had a fine eye for it
The old man didn’t notice
How would he, expiring on that couch
With the far end worn right down
From his feet with all their pressing
Like kneading the wall of a womb
You had to hand it to the vikings
Piling themselves and all their stuff
On that big combustible boat
Leaving for the circling vultures
Only bare scorched bone
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