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1983-2015
tearing the rag off the bush again
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“I hungry” chimes a croak anod the sill.  “You silly goat,”

Ted lurks beneath the stair, in a cupboard, smiling.
Bob tells him it’s time.
“Gender’s always a problem,” opines T.,
“when learning a new tongue.”
“Sex is something we never quite get over,” B. replies.
Just then, a hum from under the refrigerator
grips them with palpable error.  “Yiminy!” hymns Ted,
“Dem varmint get me leg!  Hand me saw!  Hand me saw!”
“No saw but sea,” say B., nagging a nag westward at sunfall.
“I don’t believe my eyes!”: Ted from beneath a salad.
“Don’t have to, sun!  Just shine”: Bob from behind a mine.
They carry on merrily for ten hours or so, when suddenly
a fork proffered by a hand appears from around a corner.
“I hungry” chimes a croak anod the sill.  “You silly goat,”
he offers, along with cheese and spill of Tyre’s goated flow.



 
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