It’s familiar, yet different.
Like something lost in time.
Something of the smell the quality,
I picture an old English wood. A wool suit.
And as I write my poetry,
it takes me to another place.
A place by a fire, a bloodhound by my feet.
As I whimsically write away,
even in a newfound accent I’ve discovered myself to have.
If I was an old Englishman, living in an old world,
I’d be the king of the country.
But, no, I live in the day of bubblegum and soap.
So, today, Chanel it is.
I may not rule the old world, but at least I’ll rule today.
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