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29 The slime, an imbeciling broth, The praise-singers imbibed in degrees, Most with cupped hands, others with spoons But a few with index fingers licked. The hosannas at each nativity, Wattled the nation with the slime, And our mentors wore bangles of servitude, As if they were no part of the beatitude. Fools at forty, fools forever, For Vice Chancellors, licked gilded boots And bore shackles of second class, That today, are the scaffolds of our being. God’s Sons God’s sons walk on springs, They have their teeth in place, They go to church on Sundays, And sing carols at Christmas. They never miss a step, They never have my fears, They’re very safe in darkness, And even tame the vipers. ...

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