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The Fieldtrips Of Your Mouth

Going down into the crypt, shoeless, Singing
The nursery rhymes that should exist:
And now all of this stuff,
Blown as if up from the consumptive lips of another
Exhausted and overworked genie:
And I really shouldn’t have a home or a bicycle,
But now you are almost home, Alma,
Or you are making out with your man at the movies:
All my thoughts are hung upon what it is that you are doing,
And my father wants money,
And he is counting his horses, while the moon riles over the
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6/19/2021 2:53:37 PM # 1.0.0.631