By | 1 September 2013

You say you want to end the charlatan, yet
yours the standstill cruciform bleak daylight
saved evening, starkly
scapegoated. See, you say, sign
of the bold made prone. Glad there
the vanity at the Dandenong soak, your tight
grip, it is a secret during the Australian Open
commentary, which is pointless.
Sloth number in the lamb but an avid mind
before the end. Avid subject supine
our bascule. Snap my back. In the sedge gulags,
Captain Cook nod, Marcus Clarke wet,
rubicund like the infant
coast, spry not fey beyond gambling.
You would shoot it. Wheedlers in the elderly
club by the ancient pub.
I add that not all chance is wrong.
Do not let it, is the number. Variations:
I suck the bullets
useless. Poorer country and rabid distractions,
fey was always spry she-oak but duly noted
and our bascule supine.
Captain Cook drowned with gold galoshes.
Betray missing persons. Did any of us
survive sea-bound?

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