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Ant Smith
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Stage Poems

Walk The Line

I'm writing a letter to Santa

To tell him my head doesn't work

When I'm asleep I dream about things

That haunt me and taunt me and hurt

I imagine a world taken over

By mutes wearing fine tailored suits

I want to ask a favour of Santa

Please send me some suitable pills

This morning I'm mailing e-Jesus

Got his address from the door of a stall

I'm pleading for a bit of his magic

Please turn all my shit into fish

So I can feed the ungrateful five thousand

Upon such sweet fine delicacies

And then with my Midas back passage

I'll be worshiped like god's only gift

And a text I would send to the godhead

If and only his number were listed

I know that he'd listen, if he existed

Cos that's what almighties will do

If I must live amongst all of these lizards

Please may I have an ark or a spark or

Something to make me quiet different

Then I'll survive on this line I must walk

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