besides a certain affable viscosity
(or hyperthyroidal pomposity)
that makes you turn your head
to the left and cough and now
to the right and cough again
all because of some intense friendship
between words borrowed from
an over civilization taken by the throat
that makes you want to harken
to its mawkish calls for closer introspection
slipping you the mickey as my father
another distant druid might have said
or mumbled to himself slipping back
to sleep under his broken cromlech
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