Another December day lies painted beneath tainted skies,
As he sits perched behind burials of precious tries.
Here where young minds with aged gaits loiter and linger.
Here of climes that see one ciggy tarry on many fingers –
Burnt yellowed, like quartered buai that abounds,
Here see balls of vivid dreams travel in silvered rounds
under the jingle of a Kina and curt handshakes.
Dazed and glazed, yet an intense gaze to remedy the shakes.
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