What got done to me stains
through my hopes of passing
as fully human — though my
"bad blood" won't gloss that;
to canter around its crimson
rosette would tart up a harm
more my postwar bad luck
than a told shame's mother.
Still, the pose: Say yellow rose
go hard & plain to Amarillo.
They have shot me down!
Yet do I rise, a tad orange.
...
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