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Last Bastion Hunger doesn't listen to the news, Or care what sheik the future has in store, Or know the range of shrill B-52s, Near Kandahar. It huddles at the door Of caves and greets rapacious air, In joyfulness, takes Winter as a groom, Births twins of conjoint famine and despair, Then fox trots into bunkers carved from gloom. Hunger comes in riding on a bomb Then stands at border crossings, halting aid, While tightening the bellies of the throng, Grand Master of a desolate parade. When Hunger infiltrates and works the crowd A lifted veil can quickly be a shroud |
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