In my shaking scratched lines
I am with the older aligned
Their papers musty fug
Their love of the jug
Their memory of the schism
Their anti-liberalism
Dancing to pace the night
With those of the far right
–
How they could keep time
With poems that could rhyme
Their voice shaking rafters
Over those come just after
Who cross-legged on the stage
Starting their first page
Laid each period and comma
After every little drama
To leave us nothing but booked
In a world clearly fooked
–
Should have skipped a generation
And from grandpa got grandson
What the world would have seen
If the middle had never been
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