A quaint disaster,
To easy to miss,
A subtle punch,
To little a force to dismiss.
I couldn't let go on the village green,
Wouldn't break down amongst the serene,
Weak squash to help me breathe,
There's no future in the heads space,
To English to cry.
Clean air becoming more rare,
Racing the quakes,
Breathe in whats left,
Place your feet on the brakes.
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