LET'S HIDE IT
Let's hide the name under the bushel, on a slip of
paper no one will ever see. Some kid, some guy,
an awkward fellow whose name has lots of letters,
mostly consonants. Hails from Russia. Has millions.
Does nothing with them. Sits in front of mirrors,
sulking all day. October birthdays come and go,
cameo roles in other people's fantasies of self.
A small population, like pygmies, on the rampage;
always looking for something else and never
sure of what they've found - what they've
made up, what's real, and what the
difference is. Let's hide his name
beneath a bushel, and let it stay.
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