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P
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Life diplodocuses.

Monday crouches against

the nerwherwell of Sunday and

we spring to action,

workers on the grand backward-dashing conveyor.

There are nightcrawlers, big tough ones,

moving across the darkened firing-range

toward targets of silhouette men,

heart areas blown out.

No wonder the barbequeing

neighbors are singing “Drop kick me Jesus

through the goal posts of life!”