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(spam poem by Edward Desautels)

begging and praying
more incredulous than ever
we turned our backs on silent fancies
dull and motionless as the charm shops

while we handed over our money
our pretty town entered
into wedlock with our reproach
and the tremendous sea itself

why didn’t the lookout tell us
will you mind if we kill god
there’s little room on the roof to dance
and no prospect of something turning up

stationed in our lodgings
pocket drawing-rooms transporting our rage
we muse on handkerchiefs, the fall
and the affectionate tavern-keeper’s chamber

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