A literary festival did host a night of verse, with rappers and songwriters and bards of spoken words. They spoke of home, of race, of war, of gender/language/rage, then as the night wound to its close, another took the stage:
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a man with books behind him, proud native of the state. But the words that twisted from his mouth were mostly just irate. Like quoted tweet, he made lament: “These shallow little chits! “They’ve never read of Dickinson! They’re just popping their own zits!”
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Never mind the lines which preceded him, or e’en the previous hour; Blinded by the poet-tree, he would not see the flower. (All this before he even read, and his verse was even cruder; No jazz or beer could save the night, alas, ‘twas no Neruda.)
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You do not have to like That Voice, or the jagged, twisty prose, But youth and change is no great cause to sneer all down your nose. If you cannot abide with the growing verse, Stick with the forms you know But stay inside; Spring comes to the lawn And a thousand flowers grow!
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This thread is gaining traction! Wow! Twitter gives me wings. If you liked that salty ditty, check out some other things:https://twitter.com/maysays/status/1218142901781200896 …
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Hvala. Twitter će to iskoristiti za poboljšanje vaše vremenske crte. PoništiPoništi
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