And to think how silkily forcefed
goose liver pate feels upon the tongue
And to think all we need perform
for angel music are castrati
What do you mean when you
stop intending anything What if you do
when you do-si-do your broken
lyric What can you say to a bashful lie
I don’t feel better but I don’t feel
s’down about myself any more Your human
izing bathos has raised my spirits
some My face is burning
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