People hand me round

like a parcel at a party:

no one cares to stick for too long.


People hand me down

like a pauper at a banquet:

no one cares to give me more

than crumbs towards the floor.


People hand me in

as prisoner of silly conscience:

“Look at him, now!” they call

out loud, whilst they re

call the daft things


he said about love and the stuff

that really went, and touched him that

once upon a time,

before the game got much too cruel,

and [time] became

[once] again, and such pain


of being ignored did

rain [upon] his zed to [a].

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