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Quit the gamesmanship. Orbit
Right to noon in her fluffy dress
And cameo flowers
From some other planet’s cool season
Stem a flatulent outburst
With hard knuckles to the temple,
One shame begets a tanning bed
The organ in the meat shadow
Operate the desk-toe and in-grow
Some mulched despair, what needs
Stomping for radio beams, advertisements
Or stooge parade dreams.
Lounge me another one, Brittany,
Make it an afternoon of bloomings.
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