It's too slow
This contraption that floats through sewers,
ridden by a drunk rat with a concrete heart and death in his eyes.
Clutching a bottle of ink he spits harsh words against the walls.
Reverberant and clamorous with a tale as long and twisted as his own.
What has he to show for himself when the time arrives?
A wall filled with words
A greasy coat from an oily night.
A memory of his mother in a funeral dress.
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