I SING THE BODY ECLECTIC
Like a match running on fire; like a
true bleeding Madras without buttons,
more shawl and fixed by pins; like a
true horseman of an apocalypse that
never happened, I throw no shadow
on my horse-whipped way. You
have a zero, Skip, you a have zero -
bid me up the ante, but first have a
seat at the table. For that which goes
down gets up. For that which stays
down, lies. How risible is the frame
around this covetous picture?
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