THIS ONE'S BLUNT
Capture my severance in your wish-basket juggling:
ask me no questions I won't answer. The man living alone
in the woods is a captive of only his mind. He lives in a car
and eats alone. Two bags of bad money, in the trunk.
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Loggers and woodsmen all, and each one in Parchman Prison.
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There's no story like the story I'm telling : gunman and banks
and a happy warehouse guard. Dead now, like his daddy and
mamma too. I don't know why; this'll have to do.
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