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It was an apt rant,
a ribald cyclic ontology
without which Grandpa
would bound his blood
in snuff and agoraphobia.

Sting bombs drawn
in horny knack
of notwithstanding paradigms.
Much ad lib Kronos aft
with lavalamps from yond junkyard.

Africa minds music in a bloody dawn
with flagrant clinical zits.
Saint Unt a torn urn without to quit.
An 'X' word, no yab-yum, torn Victor
from his apt linguistic bonds.