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Overloading the Machine
Sham
The woman swam for her son —
shawl, nasal wail and a howl for
the man with the anvil jowls
to no avail:
vanilla ash and
he was a no-show.
The son, in a hail of vain wish —
small, slim snow
from liminal to vanish:
mail on the null-sail.
Reader, suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of
Congress. But I repeat myself.
-- Mark Twain
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