ix222 (01/23/83)
we'll try the myth of the poet who gets mail.
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There's no putting in a word
How it feels to be absurd.
Don't complain, don't show me fingers;
Let us savor, let us linger
By the waters of the Nile.
Across from us a crocodile
Sunning in the evening sun
Is clearly wanting to eat someone.
He bites a snake to only find
The loathsome form was only slime.
He cannot grin, he cannot blush
He but sinks lower in the mush,
Forgetting his ire...
Above the evening sun sinks higher,
Setting now this vaunted room
Into a self-respecting gloom.
Shall we leave him to his doom?
There is no self-respect, only pride
Hidden where predjudice hides
Where pride goeth before the fall
There is no self-respect at all.
Or in the hypothalamus, a neat incision
Reveals the need for much revision
And rewriting of our lines
We're not debugged, in fine, in fine.
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awaiting your comments, acclaim or pooh-poohing,
steve serocki
{ucbvax philabs};sdcsvax;sdccsu3;ix222