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A reckoning for Holly-days
We eat the slops, stale and tryte
Bathed in white television light.
Troughs overflowing in chicken feed,
Where now our golden-honey mead.
Bright parrot now plucked
Naked sprawling in the muck.
As sure as sympathy
Is fellows clasped in shared misery
Hound this cold, sterile season
Till we loose this strange unreason.

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