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marching songs and
anthems fill the air and tom-tomming
a cracked voice sidles at the target of the lyric
ha and a rose that is not other than a rose rots
peaceably in the South Coast Botanical Gardens
that’s all there
isn’t anything more to say except why not
to laugh in your sleeve that there is nothing more to say
and say so in The New Yorker say so as to wish there were
and someone there who could tell the bleeding difference
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