the big fold takes the damage.
Slammed against the withered wall,
the think tank breaks the image,
- of prime time piece, the onerous scream,
its recess stewed and groped,
it taped and typed and tuned it well,
the brown stain spread, it hoped.
No salty savior knows it's there,
the summer grass bends low,
but mark my words, he'll pull them up,
from trap doors far below.
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