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That sandpaper,
rubbing up and down against my mind,
that sin.
This creaky lullabyist,
it gets easily detuned,
this brittle plywood chaise.
That slapdash makeshift making-of,
of an unwanted cute little sunshine sprog in no time,
that quickie.
"The sweetness you seek comes packed in porcupines"
admonished me, with love,
the fellow taxman on a night after his dayshift as a postman.
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