Decided to do a little take on Frank O'Hara famous Lana Turner piece.
Poem
"Anna Nicole Smith Found Dead..."
I'm working like most thursdays
and sure it's raining a bit,
but I'm in Brockton anyway,
and even a cool day with beautiful snow
would look like it was just raining
in Brockton, on a day I only want
to end. Except the news has
power to warp and hold time
with the scrolling words:
"Anna Nicole Smith Found Dead..."
And there's that same clip of somewhere sunny,
and Anna Nicole is still up and walking.
I'm no trophy for decrepit millionaires,
and I've no children to sell upon their deaths.
Still, I don't think I'd stoop this low for attention.
Anna Nicole, I know you're faking. Cut the shit.
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