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The Lyricist's Lament I never learned the trick of snaps, got sick on canapes and wit, could never open up somebody else's rented suit to find the real gorilla underneath. I missed the point of alligator shoes, odd monikers and utter individuals, and even Lulu Obligata's last soiree was lost on me. Within an hour I could see constituent millenia but not a second, in myself a whole society but not a single you. (We lyricists are like to stay home typing up the sub-groups of the lyric self, beloved admiral of all our mirrors.) Maybe this is love asleep, love slumming, love where sub- and object cannot be distinguished, love in which it's just too easy being true. 192 ...

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