QUASIMODO
Quasi modo geniti infantes,*
“Why was I not made of stone like thee,”
Up-far-up, he hugs the cold cathedral gargoyle.
Are there tears when they beat his humpback?
Do we care? Do we?
Sophistical** sophistication of the mob
both skint and silk-stocking.
Ill will surrounds the beauty and the beast, both misunderstood.
Mood of shadows, felicitous and suffering bells,
Orgasmic Frollo circling Esmeralda, blaming...
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