HARLEQUIN TUMBLER
Oh was't I can do, Mr. Kang'roo?
I've only heard your name one
time before. It still leaves me
cold : all that time in those
deadbeat alcoves and the
level fields of Central Park,
I'd never seen you there.
Yet now I understand you
were it, the one they always
spoke of : a Hippie God to
come around, with food
and happy drugs for the
distribution. I remember
it all so well. You were,
what, then, 30? To my 18?
Still I call you bastard, you
dirty tumbler, you wrecker
of my teens. I'm glad this
funeral is yours and not mine.
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