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Critique Oblique Critic of the black and white It's your first night. The Passion Play gets in the way, Spoils your insight. Tell me how the baby's made, How the lady's laid, Why the old dogs howl with sadness. The blue thing in the ball leaves naught but a bloody footprint on the memory of last summer's trip to Europe Did you buy a passport from the queen? And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony shoulder of a young horse named George who stole surreptitiously into her geography revision. The examining body examined her body.
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