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The rape victims will be on display at three.

The ones who are truly loved will be hiding in misery.

The pedants will be putting on their makeup.

The poets will be throwing up.

The dress makers will be asking the tease,

If crimson is okay and exactly at the knees.

The director will say, hush, you don’t want to be exact:

A lie can be fact on fact on fact.

Welcome the skinny girl who lives in Brooklyn

Who broke into poetry on tact:

Sin and feminism—

Sword and rapier of indignation

Laid across a graduate student’s lap.

Whiskey. Art. After that, a nap.

There is a young man I know

Who is a gentleman, that’s all I know.

The Modern poets will be there before three.

At quarter after two they will congratulate the editor, nicely.

The abusers will be standing around

Asking each other if baby is a word or a sound.




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