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Foundling Theory Fund
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Argyle of Free's Inn
by William Butter Yeast
I will button up and go now, have a drink at Free's Inn,
And a small Cab down there, and wear my finest plaid.
Nine canapés shall I eat there, some water for my sin,
and sit alone pretending to be glad.
And I shall have wasabi peas there, some gin, a dram of sloe
dropping from the veins of evening, from where the cricketers sing.
There midnight's all a fog and noon you shouldn't know,
and morning full of lint-rolled strings.
I will go home now, discard the night to lay
between my Land's End sheets, my beach-sound maker's drone,
considering commuting, my cubicle, the suit's long day.
I fear it now: my deep heart's gone.