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Sunday, 9 January 2011


Suited man,
demands quicksands,
in the promised land.
No religion,
no opinions,
no contradiction.
Heads bob,
I sob,
yet the group,
rubes, not rubies,
not fit to test a tube,
"move to the groove"
A nod will suffice,
saves the use of ice,
hit then head hits gneiss,
thinks the pessimist, the sweet generaliser. 
Hateful, as I am to this in group, shunning lambastes.

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