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The Tip

Burroughs, Laing and Huxley, to name just three,
Were off their minds when writing poetry,
And though I’ll never be, a graduate of chemicals or philosophy,
If I just had more time, I’d too construct imagery sublime,
With help of skunk and LSD,
Instead I’m driving to the tip, giving me just a twenty minute ‘trip’,
But chain smoking I can rip, out these eleven nicotine fuelled lines,
Just in the nick of time, before I fill a skip,
Still it doesn’t mean I can’t impart, the jagged rawness of my heart,
But is it art ? of worth or use,
Or should it stay here with the refuse.