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The Workshop Poem They assembled it from dead body parts— a syllable here, a morpheme there—and slowly the form took shape. The best hands and hearts graced this workshop of Wlthy creation, the lowly and the high-born side by side. It was the thing itself, its mind so Wne it wasn’t violated by ideas, just content to groan or sing indiscriminately. One thing it clearly hated: playing tennis with a net; it would be free, versed in the language of democracy. It slunk out into the world to do its damage, longing for the quiet, domestic life. It begged, wheedled, threatened, and roared. It gave itself away. The world ignored it. 76 ...

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