“No art ever came out of not risking your neck.”
Put your head right there on the chopping block if you please.
“But, sir,” the poet said. “I haven’t finished my poem yet.”
Did you really think you’d get a reprieve? Talk to the language police,
maybe they have the wrong guy; let’s see, no they know who you are.
Ok, let’s try this again, son: put you’re fucking head down on the block.
“But, sir,” insistent. “I’m just a small time fish in the circuit. Maybe
they thought I was someone else? Ask them again want you please.”
Ok, they tell me you’re the prick that wrote that scuzzy political tract?
“No, sir,” disgusted. “That wasn’t me! I protest…” Son, you protest to much!
Now get your ass on the block before I chain you down Mr. Tough.
“There’s been a tragic mistake, sir,” puzzled and clueless…
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