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poem by TR

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you stand there in your Italian suit

wearing hate on your skin like perfume

money gleams in those Aryan eyes

virtue shiny as your tasseled shoes

leather bible in hand like a whip

glittering gems grace each fat finger

calling on God like your errand boy

wrath of the mighty, smite them all down

cocooned in your own cold complaisance

you name the sin and blame the sinner

while at home you diddle your daughter

and divorce a dozen desperate wives


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