Akzidenz Grotesk
I often dream I am not stark [and thin].
I am not clean. I am maligned by history in a vague regime.
In slight of bloody hand, vilified my frame.
I am forever chased out of museums.
I could really use something.
[And the stroke just pleases ???]
I often dream I am etched into skin,
and my ornate roots have no home to return to.
And I am now but a misnamed common face,
and history is useless vapour,
but it sits just so upon the page.
I could really use something.
[And the stroke just pleases ???]
And the Romans want me back,
and I’ve been errant; all the errata were not apparent.
And the Romans want me back,
and I’ve been errant; all the errata were not…