Whowhenia
when I
a rock-chucking stick-slasher
patch-monger
was
there was a waterless
well
where we would await sprites and goblins in ambush
shoe-lace lariats
piles of rock for cannonade
this and all all the angels
at bay
for there is nothing gay grisly meaner than
restless
idleness
caked with efflorescing dandelions
raging raiding sun
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