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The Taste of Rusty Pennies

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There’s nothing like platoon breakfast,
mealy-mouthy goodness,
to settle that crippled siren’s tune.

It digests like budding seedlings
during the flan-and-berry evening,
while the night stews where no one dare goes.

Then it tip-toes in,
with a dog-lipped grin,
and with one bludgeon it pounds with formal fury.

At least the breakfast was for champions,
with that good ol’ same ol’
rusty penny taste.





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