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wagging wire-to-wire high above
the grim plows and massed droves,
fussy your bingo boy is.
swinging vine-to-vine,
the yoke underneath holds,
his bangtails tautly restrained.
but eyes reposed his are,
and concealing the famine
within them.
buttery areolae starch his prowl.
a floorboard creaks.
snaps back to attention.
now comes the conversion moment
and dawn dawns.
the yoke merely dreamt.
unchained melody
chopped & screwed.
persisting for him
far beyond the pale.
The Yoke
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