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59 The Drunkard A bald gray-haired drunkard stands alone Buoyed by the tide of time Forever moving, never docking His sunken cheeks, deep like a canyon, Expose his bony cheekbones Hollow-eyed like a starved knave— A dead-walking grave— He has weathered many a storm His lips, cracked like the crevices of his heels, Gape wide, revealing two brown-crooked fangs He, a thorny-bowlegged slob, A changaa guzzling drum-bellied bum, A reefer puffing snob, Looks on His frail bony hands poke his belly That protrudes like an over-inflated balloon— No match to a worm-bellied marasmus child— His timid eyes recoil behind his blinking wires Once knotted with sleep-matter Inebriated, he collapses . . . a nincompoop And time marches on at a steady pace, Never stopping . . . ...

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