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Post by Ross McCague on Jul 22, 2008 21:24:53 GMT -5
I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow. Of poets that are always gay… W.B. Yeats
Just eight lines to draw a bull, Measure out a life when done perfectly. A few clean strokes that divulge Most of what we know, Something like an epitaph that stands Representing knowledge. Picasso’s stature rests on it: A century’s torment balances on the pen, But it is woven deeper still in memory, Gradually eased by time. A curious procession winds through All the proliferating acts of mankind, Vulgar in a certain measure, decorous for the most part, And utterly barren of redemption, Except in an extravagant, ill-fitting frame Signed below with no discernible name.
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