and it could so be
sometime in the red-pillared room
grimly sadly sweetly a hospital bed
and up on the night terrace
sun lotion, grill smells, perfume
waft up salty cloying his nostrils
he rides his forefinger over a well-clipped moustache
then howling at the wind and coughing and crying
he screams and hollers
like there is no tomorrow
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