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On the folly of writing about dead people
An exercise in couplets; I’m moon walking, sleep walking, only halfway here; The accents from another time are dinning in my ear. My fingers tap the iambs, I’m counting ‘neath my breath, Horns honk in the intersection, scare me half to death; “C’mon, bitch, it’s two-ohoh five, not three hundred years before!” But the century [...]
