x
schencka
Poem (not even worth putting on Associated Content)

At Estes Park I saw

A rusted can of Old Milwaukee Light

And a campsite long abandoned.

Over a fire they drank and complained

And told stories of jobs, women, bosses, kids,

Their shaggy hair shifting in the fall breeze.

How much gold did they have, how much bread,

How much cheddar, how much this and that?

Doesn’t matter now, does it, and for me it shouldn’t

Matter either.

No profanes - sacred
 
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