No protege; no time today
to be the way the good folks say
the debts we pay for making hay;
just fields of grey;
and skies of grey;
and eyes of grey;
and minds of grey;
oceans deep and wide and dark, dark grey;
Even icebergs soft pale blue
are turning dirty grey;
An avalanche of little grey lies
surround our feet, our knees, our thighs;
grey stone walls hold whispered sighs;
contented throats supposed wise,
think grey thoughts of strategy;
swap grey stacks of bonds of tax free;
climb grey stairways to heavens money tree;
while grey smog chases stolidly.
Oh damn; I so wanted to work in a rhyme for pie.
But I've lost interest; the grey is creeping in.
That's what I get for listening to the news.
My least favorite Color (except on Monday)
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