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RECESSION SONG (poem) - Justin Quinn - Ireland - Poetry International
 
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RECESSION SONG
      Sage is just the thing
         for snake bite, bee sting
and keeping all the bad at bay.
   The bush stands guard through ice and snow
   and when warm winds begin to blow
it draws mauve flowers out of dark clay.
 
      They steeped it in a tea
         with rosemary,
garlic, horehound, baby’s breath,
   and called it Four Thieves Vinegar,
   convinced its perfume could deter
the swelling horrors of Black Death.
 
      But it will do, good herb,
         to salve and curb
a common cold or nerves, and I
   these days, with everybody’s eyes on
   the grim news banked on the horizon,
like how its leaf spears face the sky.