STAIRWELL POEM #7

Thirteen stairs in the frame.
The form will always remain the same.
It is the nature of the game.
As long as the poem doesn’t end up lame.
It used to be stream of consciousness
without getting far too fucking precious.
No god damned curse words most of the time
unless of course they bloody well happen to rhyme.
The man with the bag and fashionable mac
I wonder if he will ever be coming back.
We are only here for a short time, dear heart
and everybody must play their part.
They’ve changed the walls and the magic is gone
it look like this is the end of this particular song.