Not So Secret Life of an Nintendo 64 Controller

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A cold hand, bathing in melted ice cream
Moves across my smooth, plastic landform, gripping
My curves, pressing against the yellow buttons
That point to every direction. Like Woody—
Spoken for and moved by Andy—
The hand pulls against me, thrusting me
Against an undeveloped chest, pulling the budless
Vine from the fence where I start and end.
Then, the hand throws me down, my vine,
Forced by anger, follows through the air,
Freezing the generated machine gun—
Putting an end to the war.





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