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jack! where’s your box? Jean-Talon? where the cheap coloured suits say hey bella, come amo? you call your father? & i say that’s none of your business, okay? but sure, money maker – knee breaker, got a dollar to spare? got a phone to use? got a number to score? got a box to build? a shoe box? for a poet-man, he’s dead but his mad creations shouldn’t be exposed to light & need to chant & smile & maybe play banjo & never die?
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