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32 Scarecrow In tatters, such scarecrow scares And grips poets’ pens in nightmares Not the poet taking head on Medusa and riding on Skeletally spiked pavement Spiting anything payment ‘Cos in poets’ hand all pens right The wrongs about which they write! Nimbus, My Cry My dark cries the like of nimbus bring rain If dickhead hears not all my cries the rain Will hit him hard as hail and he will feel These long years he has spooled mine on a reel With jollity and merry-going-round To bury facts for the grave all are bound As my pens weep not only for his plight But laugh at caitiffs putting up big fights For the glorification of such goats Who with their kind on rough sea rock the boats Then jump up and down with flags of success With all else going adrift in recess. ...

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