80. But though I have wept
(san izal the bastard razorwipe
here a confluence of word-detritus
outflow from the engine
google (echoic resonant of plumbing)
and what it does cough up
a echoed cyclops
sit himself sheepish
like Rab the goosewiper
all the massaged up foie gras
all here shushed for secrets
whitewashed
for the people and stink)
of the san izal encampment
and teenage raining glory
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