Tuning On A Broken String

Slumped next to the broken backed boxer with the brewery in his blood,
They use rusted tweezers to clean metal filings from under their fingernails.
They’ve been booting in back windows, putting park benches through panes,
Wrapping rubber gloved hands around electrical appliances.
Mouldy kettles, frayed wire irons, dusty screen teevees,
There were four, but number four had his head busted in by a bat,
And was left to bleed out, being bitten by bloodthirsty puppies.
So now there are three, one has mermaids tattooed on his cheeks, and tries to sell
His nine carat nipple rings, And two, sucks up opium drool swirling swimming eyes, Behind greasy sunglasses. And three, has a solid tan gained from working the mines In winter. A place in the queue opens for them and they unzip the torn sports bag,
To gain
Fifty five dollars from the fence’s apprentice.

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