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75 The Private Dull and bleak morn Promises day’s finesse As I gasped still, A churl in green to me got. He fluttered: “gooooodmonin.” As brows make way for the lens His leafy leaflike garb stunned me. Still, still…. “Willy” he fluttered again. Just too many of ‘em: The poet, the teacher, The steward or the lecher? For my question A slap is born on the wall As my twig respects the wind. The lesson is across the rift For a veteran’s to touch. ...

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