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12 S t e p h e n Pa g e The Bad Guy In paddock nine a bull grew wings Flapped and flew over barb wire; Or did it just step over A three-foot-high electric fence? Some months ago your phone decided Not to lift or ring, So it could not report natal morning, Nor answer sunset blackening deaths. In three weeks you consumed a cow, Murdered another, Assassinated a calf: but Their blood does not brown the grass. You think with your close-set mercury eyes That admin is uncountable, And the two-hour curving highway between us Will horse you time to town. I braided a noose out of calf hide, And carry a nine-millimeter on my hip, Constructed a yardarm inside my office; Am sharpening my belt-knife upon my desk. ...

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