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    The Imp With The Limp
  by Sam Freek


Bags, clutter, dust and overgrown plants fall out of your Beyonce umbrella as you mutter sweet nothings in the rain
The bus driver has a sly fox grin and drives over the cats eyes at 100 miles an hour to stay awake
It's not long before a wanderer from the top level attacks you for whistling your favourite tune
There seems no point in asking for the green door to open as you hide under the stairs with your hair parted over to the left
Where do all the lumps come from in the cream of serious doubts?
You ask for a drum roll as you turn from a cherry red to a mauve and then fold up like a deck chair
Suspended in a fake reality I smash the windows in the house made of stained glass
I slowly crawl up spaghetti legs to escape into the universe on a giant red lipstick
Numbers fall from the stars and create a tidal wave of laughter of zeros and ones
Ground control is managed by the Spanish talking cows from a dairy advert on channel 229
A thousand hands clap in reverse as I enter your inner most sanctum of desires
This fills your face with a smile and yet three hazy months pass with no sign of the imp with the limp

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