(Clam City News ed. note -- for some reason unfathomed by us Ricky says this poem reminds him of Larry.)

Marge Simon

The Cross-Eyed Hippie Died For Me
Silver spoons
flip over the moon
while the shademan
plays my tunes
to black-eyed girls
in snakeskin shirts
and heavy lidded lies.

Wake up with an empty head,
some kind of ugly in my bed
from I don't remember where.

So we pass the time
with a snowy line
on broken glass.

She tells me I'm a legend,
but I've forgotten why.

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