Poetic-Verses

THE OLD ELEVEN

I know that the chair basking bare
Fumes in my ear
And letting me not sleep
Upon my bed
But everyday
Four degrees water softer, some are soft

Oh, my old church
There is in you no air
You are but hell
And all those dead people
but sitting there
And but in flames

The ash of church the pastors cannot
bear
Or carry all
To smooth some fair forth fruits
All in the air