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@ @ |
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In an open field at dusk |
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to footfalls I awoke |
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marching ants across my temples |
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their feet had no intention |
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they followed some magnetic drum |
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prisoners of their destination |
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|
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from the slats of the factory come |
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where once they did make rails |
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old Death's peculiar songs |
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he didn't know I was listening |
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so he crowed out nice and long |
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to the spiders and the lumber |
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and the dust of his conquest |
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and his hunger and his lust |
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|
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I heard his feet rejoice |
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I heard him tap his cane |
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as if he had his own review |
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on stage at the F and M |
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|
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I caught his words in my open mouth |
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I gagged and choked and spit them out |
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I heard him turn his heated ear |
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my tiny heart beat in his ear |
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I was already running |
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oh, I heard him coming |
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|
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shrapnel spitting from his wheels |
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his sobbing arms raked for my heels |
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I dove and rolled and hid my face |
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and I said these magic words: |
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|
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my dove is home |
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her breast is warm |
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my dove is home |
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|
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and I said these magic words |
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and fell down, down the anthill for days |
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|
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my dove is home |
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her breast is warm |
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my dove is home |
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|
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my dove is home |
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her breast is warm |
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my dove is home |
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|