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Warm clothes,
No heat—
Outside,
A line for our food,
A line for our post—
With bated breath we
Tame our Monster—
We hope for fax,
E-mail or txt.
Now covered in lather,
Feathers running through the streets.
Well-read, we'd all cry,
And liberally educated—
How not to turn a wrench
And turn a plow.
Art, once our savior,
Goes wholesale at the block party.
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