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DON’T BE CONFUSED

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The war protestor secretly likes war
and the war protest is war.
Jealousy dominates the newspaper stand.
That's what reporting is for.
Sadism and schadenfreude
stalk the land
and betray themselves in the kindly poet's
anti-war poem kindly published by the flippant force,
"The London Review of Books,"
with a child's body parts, of course.

The left has gone so far left, it's right.
Don't be confused.
London's Islamic influence
is teaching the sexy new manners.
To tell you the truth, the renowned rock star,
now a knight, quickly got sick of free love,
never liked it. Haven't you heard?
The party's over. We're not young forever. The "wealthy"
and their "wealth" have become a bit of a joke. Death
dominates literature in fearful undertones.

The Rolling Stones keep touring.
Brian Jones and Beatles, ghosts.
The presidential candidate giggles.
The author turning sixty-eight yawns;
his brother hated his father,
or so he says; he didn't remember the hate;
he would never say something like that;
they don't say things like that at work;
the plain life keeps asserting itself.
Why are we scared? There's something that isn't.
The old tape proves beyond a doubt he was a jerk.

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