I AIN'T NO BIG SHOT
But I can be atop the arpeggio
before the agent says adios
you know. I'm a cyclic spinner,
an antler at the edge of a lawn,
hung onto a deer that has strayed
too long away. Amiable too a
fault, I aim to spray my acerbic
rhythms where I may. I'll be
feeding the angles of attribution
until the journalists come home
to haunt. Their vague hintings
may, I hope, come to naught.
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