My pants have flown.
I must go feed the ravens.
The trickle-down theory of poetics
is the new Reganomics.
Cordelia has a heart
in her. It is her name,
scoffed and scuffed
today quite a bit
by some borrowed bowling shoes
apparently. Dilated
by the kindred, I'm sure
she hurt. But true to the false,
I feel for you.
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