My name is printed in a column,
Politely, like a queue,
A school crocodile line.
Two words in staining ink.
My fingertips,
They have turned black,
Tracing lines of a curling print,
Prints burned away by fire,
Off a silent roasting child,
Fat, bean-ish, and blonde.
I saw the advent of my article,
My little contribution,
Beside the colossus of stocks,
My two fine words,
Dwarfed by the daily...
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