A days, years, months, decades
-old poem somehow does never
pass without some one concluding:
he's at home. He lives and breathes
this misery exactly NOW.
Go pound your own sand,
Herakles. Your seer is
Tiresias, a legendary
blind man bluff. Your
poet's deaf, oh yes
he is.
Go Homer, my dear
homely holmes
your
Watson needs a rooster
bird
to fluff up so dramatically
in his free P.R. puff piece
>>WORD>>
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