John the Barman: Poem - Paradise is only in the imagination.
Across The Atlantic,
she reads musings from a bard
and closes her eyes to feel
a fantasy of freedom to fly
to have wings
to scream like the eagle
preparing to dive
(this dive is too hot
i might singe feathers
or tickle fantasy
with a shake and a shower
of shedding water)
Let the good times roll
right over
that Beatles Beethoven.
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