of the things to say, oh
of the things to say, oh
one
old woman began to beat
her son
with a frying pan
and
until he began to bleed
he
imagined himself upon
the gateway of heaven
and to enter there would
not be
treason.
I don’t care;
if your hair
is
curled and in those loops
go leery the bugs
of
an unseemly apart,
I don’t
care.
do you hear me?
do you?
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