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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=578767" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Unabashed Bouquets</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=578767" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Upon the higher back of the albatross<br>It rains, it floods; <br>And if I am not beautiful by now, <br>I will be beautiful by then: I can see by the lights<br>That my father put in<br>As he whipped me, as I wrote the novels that no one<br>Reads, <br>I killed the dragon by which my friends were sewn<br>But never fed: <br>Beautiful irony of the butterfly crushed on the super<br>Fine roadway; <br>But I am no longer afraid: I still have my dreams, <br>By my scars, <br>By my liquor glass- I still have my friends, <br>Even if I should have died high up on the wild<br>Back of the buffalo, <br>Never read, by the red lips of wild flowers, the unabashed<br>Bouquets the dead Indians dead in the gutters<br>Of the old fashioned roadways: Again, I loved you, <br>Erin, but you are too busy serving the truancies of your<br>Highwaymen to understand my love, <br>Unabashed and unbred- Aren’t you, Erin; <br>Yet still my sweet love, my dead light bulb by which<br>I got to bed every night- Erin, <br>Amen.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>

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