RED TATE – BAD POETRY by Peter Nolan Smith

Red Tate lies on the pavement
Helpless flat on his back
If his mother saw this sight
Tears would fill her eyes

Red Tate drinks Ripple.
Sometimes Thunderbird
Red wine dulls his nerves.
A bum
A tramp.
His mother’s second son.
1978

This entry was written by Peter, posted on April 16, 2024 at 1:17 am, filed under Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.

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