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Sunday, February 21, 2021

poem - the lion


by horace p sternwall



lambs eat grass
lions eat lambs
humans shoot lions
and send urgent telegrams

i shot my first lion
the telegram reads
he thought he would live forever
but i was waiting in the weeds

the look on his face
when he breathed his last
was absolutely priceless
but the sky was overcast

a buzzard circled overhead
with a knowing wink
i went back to base camp
and mixed myself a drink

the days go by
and we fill them as we can
i will see you in london
in september, old man

by then the nasty rumors
will all have died down
and we, who will live forever
will reconquer the town



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