when dylan was green

in the younger days when he was green

under the sun he strode boldly, and in

his veins there flowed three parts blood

to one part whiskey — all was faehrye

without need of trying, for the forgotten

spirits of the hills and rills haunted him

sober and saturated alike indifferently

what was liquor and what was welshman

perhaps not even the poet knew in his

fits of fancy and pain-inspired musings

when apples glowed green like flames

as they graced the chimney pots of grimey

london houses where girls of slender

means dwelled in decay, disappointed

and frayed at the edges like he was

in reality despite his poetic splendour

having drowned his sorrows finally

with himself in a village far from home

when triumph was tainted by dreary

november air, no bleeding trees or

shining saint david’s flowers to sing

his praises once more when came the

end — a year short of two-score he

sank into silence, strangers chanting

dirges for the green that came to dust


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