The Warehouse Man, The Warehouse Man!

The warehouse man!  The warehouse man!:

drives through backstreets in a panel van,

and lurks at the edges of your attention span.

His face is pallid, his complexion wan.

He gathers syllabics in linear debris,

and stacks them in piles like to Poetry;

then these he warehouses on long, dusty shelves

(raised on rusred post that he calls irony).

all bearing the names of his multiple selves.

He believes his effort is an epic attempt,

but its sad effects are always uncouth and unkempt.

But taking you in is his ultimate plan.

will it work?  Stay tuned, to see if it can:

the sinister shamblings of the warehouse man.


Starward

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