He shouts in letter-box and knocks on the door,
Sweating, shaking hurriedly wanting to score:
The sun is shining, but not in his sorry face,
No radiance there - only sad criminal disgrace
A patient he so is, calling to the dealer's surgery
Seeking medication that does not come cheaply:
You are at the finishing line of your cold race,
Come on through, just one more pace to taste.
Now you are in I will take your hand
And lead you to your promise land,
Come on forward and don't look back,
Now you're here you're back on track.
I'll open up my stash of cocaine-crack;
Your promised land heroin like sand.
Andrew Stevenson 19/03/2017
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