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Post by mfwilkie on Feb 14, 2008 22:30:45 GMT -5
I
Virginia, after the pining. The weather comes without buttons. Red rides saints who are sinners. No one votes for the truth.
Color, without experience, becomes suddenly correct. (Billy will forgive me if he has any sense)
Corn dogs are reality in poems filled with woods.
II
Weather comes without buttons. Without taxes. Without speeches written by wagging agendas who line their pockets with the blood and sweat of America.
III
Burn what doesn't fit on a female donkey. When the smoke clears, it will be Shangri-la.
Suddenly. And without shame.
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Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Feb 15, 2008 8:00:42 GMT -5
So good, Mags. I'm thinking of a quick suggestion in the last line of the first strophe.
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