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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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