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BRUTUS The splinter of soft words prick feeling. Let it drip upon a slide Put it under a microscope and observe the take over. Burning ants with a magnifying glass, same concept. You have to wait for the clouds to sober up and quit crying. Heaven and hell are conspirators. Same side different goals. Hand in hand playing hop scotch, skipping across our faces, getting us lost in nonsense; truth encrypted in riddle. The tides of March circled on the calendar. "For we have come to bury Caesar not to praise him." The evil that you do will outlive you. While the good found is left to Hallmark cards, impersonal, words already chosen. Written by middle-aged white men who know nothing of love or of being addicts of loss. Tapping the vein for another hit, the quickest way to baptism, cooking up a spoonfull of God. Can I get an Amen! Wash away the guilt. Buy enough self-help books to convince you it all goes back to an event in childhood. Make beds out of them so you can live with yourself. It will all have changed in the morning. (Pause for audience laughter) |
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