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pumpkin poem

er spricht nicht gut
wenn Freiheit von ihrer Gebirgshöhe
die hypocritic Tage
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
wenn der rote Slayer denken, slays er
drei Tage hörte ich sie, sich Sorgen zu machen, wann ich absolut lege
wenn der Wind gegen uns in der Dunkelheit arbeitet
ich gehe hinunter die Gartenwege
ich sah, daß Sie und shivering auf den Steinen hunched


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