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Boss

Rating: 3.5

In dining room smelling of rooks' wet wing
Hot coals burn in place of her eyes
As she crunches small birds for lunch
And yells, "Worthless, accursed idler:
The taste for play when one is grown
Lays hold of empty hearts and heads."

I look at portraits of old men
On walls, their eyeballs expanding
Like flowers as they regard me.

Speak up! Speak up! they seem to say
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7/28/2021 6:25:38 AM # 1.0.0.666