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extemporaneous dance of the peacocks

a rock hath no weight of its own
except when carried on the back
of one's denial,
then of course, even Atlas
peacock feathers molt
(and fall)
and then what have you
except a scroungy-looking bird
worth less than two in the bush
and one if by land
on the other hand,
a dimwit by fog
is no better than candlelight
dinner for two,
but who's eating crow
who's picking yer bones
and minding yore head?

I'm no wallflower in the glint
of an aye
are you?

pirates never suck eggs
don't look now matey but
yer-da-blooms 've fallen 'round yer ankles.
and thar's a cold wind that blows
up yours.

(thanks scribbler!)

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