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Insomnia
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My black bitch The coffee grows colder while i sit here,
Reading old Bukowski poems at forty-thirty in the morning,
My stomach empty, in this dark musty room,
The door is half ajar,
And the drip-drip-drip-drip of the shower head echos off the walls,
And the hum of the fan tries to drown it out,
All the while my coffee grows colder,
And my liquer warmer.
