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slam poetry

is there anybody there
a flying word from here and there
why are the things that have no death
some one complained to the master
i go my way complacently
daughter, thou art come to die
out of me unworthy and unknown
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
stir
in the cloud-gray mornings
it was a tall young oysterman
lived by the river-side

 



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