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Shakespeare's Monkeys

Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.

More in mourning

no need for fauxs

There is no rage or fit of envy for
those witless fools, those sobbing poor
that trot, that tango that titillate
the broken hands of fruitless fate
as they wander through old to-and-fro
be-graped, begrudged in jackets colored slow

do not weep, dear friends

for eyes that can not see
that they are lost
in almost-me
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