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40 My faith in you reduced to latex FANGS The midday sun connives with These penurious hours of red-eyed days To scorch, with famine, The tender stomachs of little ones In the heat of seven-year terms Toiling gravediggers watch their perspiration Licked off their brows By the crocodile tongues of dyed-haired, moustached prodigals And milk tears, shed From suffering eyes: They fall straight into the longest throats down below Of black-suited gluttons On the same spot I take to my heels Away from fangs that daunt the world Breaking into a stampede The glaze-eyed faithfuls of misery’s creed COME WHAT SUNDAY! Come what Sunday Shall I be brave enough To cringe from These exotic star-spangled cravings ...

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