you think of places where the soft rain fell
at three o'clock of hard mosquito whine
in the dense air so harsh smoke was benign
and the whole evening you bore the smell
of allspice wood on hair and skin rebel
you knew you could not there was one clear line
not to be crossed and no skill could refine
what you were then you waited for the bell
now what is told can never be complete
since all our stories fade into one tale
and then expire like the last winter snow
under strong sun we simply won't repeat
the pressures that would lead a lad to fail
but just command that you get up and go
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