a dirge for dylan
lights grew in the curled poet round
who said such things in a bloody town
and long may those ways abound
that set for the future the past laid down
all the bent of youth abound
to say the points of order of those days
and proudly push the lines around
with pencils that mapped the many ways
that certitude cuddled in muddled beer
that blew the smoke rings wet and bar
none were raised in laughing cheers
for the man of words had turned the far
pavilions of the chewed and crowded words
intoxicated by the juice of lines
flowing rancid were the morning lords
of misruled nights and many spitting tines
that raked the cockled bays to feed
and filter meaning of vagabond thought
to twist the tail of the devil led
to a magic flowing yet costly bought
by a soul sold to the devil-cultured verse
paid by age laid down far too soon
the winsome knife on which the hearse
fell swift and buried crossed and white by moon
and all still genuflect to youth laid down
by a poet from that ugly lovely seaside town
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