Down and Out, Or bad poetry is just like good poetry — only worse.

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You’re the cream in my coffee;
If I used cream for coffee.
You’re the nickel in a homeless mans shaking can,
As he struts along third ave and tenth being honked at by a van.
You’re the flap of a seagulls wings,
As it soars high among a buildings beam.
You give birth to crickets click,
By simply a rotate of your wrist.
Consider this an invitation to a private resort:
Sunny and hot and blistering wet;
Exotic foods and what not, with stray dogs to pet;
A full paid ticket to the highest bidder,
With me and myself, and the Lindsertort-kidder.

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