The sound of this singing out there in
Your mouth what hails us and halos
Are both constructed from the sun kill
The lights all I get is this shallow sense
Of cause the bawdiness in your socius
Sniffs a story not a moral obligation your
Penchant for evidence of Italian dick and
Young pretty things may their flesh be
With us is what you seem to say placating
What is realer inside you visions of older
Stories that are also real hearing Boccaccio
No thing operative except that it is trans
missible so the muse is said the young
Marxist grows-up all he cares about
That history entertain our future anterior.
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