14 - Rondeau
Capote on 49th Street
Young Truman jettisoned his cares
Threw parties (legend'ry affairs)
Resplendent boys peopled his bed
His books were univers'ly read
But he grew bored of this somewhere
In taking those who bought his shares
And casting them in "Answered Prayers"
Press, and friends, and even Lee said,
"It's suicide."
He quits the bar to startled glares
And leaving, tumbles down the stairs
On finding him with bloodied head
The waiters bring him home to bed
His fed-up bartender declares,
"It's suicide"
Another poem coming here tomorrow...
In the meantime, check out April 6th's poem from last year.
:0)
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