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Prison Guards

Writer's picture: Darkling ThrushesDarkling Thrushes

We should all kill ourselves; we still look at 

You.  No matter how high we fly, we like to worship 

You, and kiss your shiny black boots that stomp 

Back and forth in the hall, does it make you hard? 

 

Next time I pop a zit, I’m sure you’ll be 

Around; let me borrow the tissue in 

Your pocket.  You’re a Sweetheart of the Graves.

Kanga Roo sent a postcard from Auschwitz. 

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