Poem

This is the match with which I strike the moistened box along one side. The damp ash, tinder, faggot, brush: All are waiting in the grate. I cup the matchbox in my left hand;

Hey Freckle! How’s your day been? Did you wake up feeling special? Did the corners of the bedclothes turn themselves to let you out? Was it petals or red carpet as you stepped down

“Love is cold, More cold than Death,” Said Morrisey to Marr. And with these words He left the Smiths To move to California. “It’s sunny there, You understand,