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Poem: We Can't Say Those Things Anymore

You have the instincts of a roadhouse hen

hypnotized by a toothpick.

How's about another

hogshead from the pantry?

She's not Helen, after all.

I blew it--that's what the

glassblower said,

speaking freely

out of the part of him

that was an idiot.

That ought to get their goat.

Too bad about the goat.

We'll get it right next time.

By Lee Upton