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The Abomination

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It is of small men,
singing the song of mediocrity,
clinging to ankles and writs anxiously,
coaxing from me sorry laments
and weighted brows,
an unpleasant nuance of
the fatalist,
the furtive fingertip of failure,
it settles its filthy hand on my chest
like an admonishing priest
and i say lay on...
defying its existence
is like moon walking,
so call me the man on
the moon as i
glide past the abomination





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