the sun sets to the top
of the neighboring Motophoto
and good upper deck people
rejoice
a train whistle in my sink
grins with pride but no teeth
happy like a frat boy
with a blond and a dalmation
the time comes to check the swing
that grin won't last forever
pick up the whistle it's time to sing
a blues in the key of clever.
Politics in a literary work are a pistol-shot in the middle of a
concert, a crude affair though one impossible to ignore. We are about
to speak of very ugly matters.
-- Stendhal, "The Charterhouse of Parma"
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