ramblings and things

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Images of freedom keep sliding through his brain;
Sheltering in the copse from the after thunder rain
Lashing and thrashing and keeping him there,
Then the walk home in the newly washed air,
The broken shot gun crooked over his arm
As he wandered the track past Billy Billson's farm.
A pair of stogies nestle in his bag, good fresh meat
Soon to be plucked and drawn for the family to eat.
Stogies now feed on his lawn watched from the hell
Of a customised wheelchair enclosing him like a shell.
He closes his eyes to sigh contentedly when at last
The slide show of images starts reeling from his past.

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