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 BarBarouS thing (after Amelia Roselli, pace Milton) The sonnet is a barbarous thing. Intractable. Short. With a door that swings (without wings). Don’t come in. Tiger unstriped the claw from which not a comfortable thing. Collapses within as you doze on its waterbed skin. Barb from the coast it throws you, barbate it hides less-than-half its face. (A bearded lady? Not exactly.) Never quiet environs me of owls and cuckoos—stammers baba bababa home to Berbers and Babar who bought trousers to promenade the boulevard as did asses, apes and dogs. It has put on weight. Not Borzoi. Barks barbarismos: Care to hear the way I mangle you together? ...

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