The Ecphorizer
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Look you, I mean, Miss Perkins, All truth is hated madness in this state; Examine this and that curl While I regret a tongue to you, much less berated flick. Madam, what you do not understand Is the assembled stride of things; I see, you think that you're chic in your knit, But it is all an aged arrangement, Ailing eighth notes of a bar, Concocted and consumed by a crusty saint. Do you dare to believe through necessity That he thinks of you? You're late and he's meditating another rounded fate. Look at your paint, my quaint thing, With genes of farce complete They venerate a predestined thought Cancerous with be-er, societal toaster and lip twister. My dear, have you gone blind and deaf? This state bespeaketh a mimic Of the older temporal mime; In it all of you and minus me are standing in line! Now my sweet, don't irate become, For 'tis of things in general I pontificate; If you believe for an instant That my care is of late Your frown is failed in another space. Place your dainty London heels out there in star-treds; Observe the laughter in the light; From insular breeds I will one day all this redress, And all of your adieu Replace with Night this globe's corrupted sadness And survival born damnation of the person's coin. Why, where are you going, dear? Oh yes, Doctor, here you are, Doctor Silume, yes, things are, of course, set right. More Articles by Malcolm Scott Mac Kenzie |
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