Monday, October 8, 2012

We Were Hemingways


Most of my friends are dead now,
We lived just like Hemingway;
Thinking all intellectuals smoked,
Living shit-faced every day.

We weren’t the products of parents,
Or the meanest grade school nun,
Trading instead, the theatrical hit,
For a thrill packed, short lived run.

None of my friends were famous,
Or even published when they died,
Yet each of them carried volumes
Detailing one hell of a ride.




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