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                       Out of step with garbled utterance
           mistaking charging for Georgian
           I hear the sound of marching Georgian feet
           & the summer’s here & the time is right
for fighting in the street

           for all the bucolic bullshit—to wit
           the fields lay sick beneath my tread.

                                                                  that wasted evening
                                         serenading douchebags
                                                     on the peaks of Appian hills
                                         & longshoreman like Phoenician sailors
                                                                 working the wharves

& a dog hind leg up
     licking its balls in the sunlight 
                                         rigging worn—fiddles need tuning.