Crazy Tante von Vogt
Never met her, yet I've heard
the crazy Tante von Vogt
lived her life as any would,
if they were crazy.
She'd walk to butcher's each week
no nod greeting who might pass.
She'd buy four hundred grams’ meat,
ask for bones to bag.
At the baker's, she'd buy bread,
a brown loaf to last the week.
Tucked it neatly under arm
and took the path home.
She fed the meat and the bones
to her feral cats and dogs.
Then she'd eat her bread and broth
to tease her belly.
Her emptiness never known,
her mind reached doleful corners.
Her heart had dried up, withered,
wilted without him.
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