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39 Broadcaster Let’s admit that the buzz is sweeter out of your mouth than mine & that gold dust is a boon for taste buds & that when opulence exits your cave for my hive it recollects the purple clover of your palate. And let’s also suppose that your melody is sticky or stuck & that honeycombs have collapsed in my rotunda & you & I have tangled in fluencies & hum along, hum along. And let’s agree that our drones are killers & that workers must repose in cells though hexed & that we murmur among the mute & oscillate with the wane. 40 And let it be said that our Royals were once smeared with indigo & that the deft, in response to Depression, descended into violet, ascended as ultraviolet. ...

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