Had an inkling
That fortunes were sinking
So he held on tight to the cards at his chest
In the room machines were bleeping
He pressed the button as she tried to get some rest
His brother came in reciting some rhyme that as kids they said together in jest
Defiant he’d smuggled in a can of bitter, but you never were even at the end
A litany of platitudes served like Hors d’oeuvre’s on a silver platter not meant to offend

Copyright John de Gruyther 2018



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