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On Beating A Dead Horse Of A Different Color MAG
I lied
Through the skin of my teeth
With my tongue in my cheek
While my feet were asleep
And my nose ran.
Indeed,
Amidst getting my goat,
Out to lunch in his shoes,
I did stand off the wall
On my cold feet.
And if these are not clear as a prism,
You know why the French call this "idiotisme."
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