This poem cannot
be read aloud; that
would ruin it, the
question whether
you will pronounce
the "r" or not; and
if you do, then
banjos will appear
in your hearer's mind
and, aside your head
like wee angels, they
will twang and your
hearer will imagine
you with a three-foot
beard and just two teeth
and a claim to stake
and a washboard
to play your golden,
lonely music on.
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