Poem: Convention Prayer

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Wild man

Don’t you have a thatched straw hut

You can run back to?

You’re too rough and ready

For the likes of us sophisticates

With your ghoulish spontaneity

And shamanic thunder

Go back to the woods;

Maybe the trees will love you

We’re trying to have

A civilized dinner party here

But you keep on

Puking reality

All over the chinaware

So leave us all alone

Until you’ve been castrated by convention

Like a good little myrmidon

 

 

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