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You wore us thin like fine summer clothes,
Painting your world with pastiche and pastel,
Enticing us all to drown in your woes,
Vulgar your words, so under your spell.
How they slithered and slid round bodies blind,
Spit forth from forked tongue with fire and ice,
Pointed, shot-ready on head, heart and mind.
Your own, too, you sold with bounty and price,
To wiggle and worm round dangling deeds,
Scattered and lost in the limpid wind,
Taking root in hard clay among whispering weeds,
Shaking the earth in its soil so thin.
And born were we from this unweeded earth,
Poison and poppies, the blooms of your birth.
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