Matthew submitted his modern thesis
To all the facultative aunts and uncles.
Meanwhile, he licks tea leaves from his teeth,
Reclined behind his psychotherapist,
There to discuss his ars poetica,
Sweeping enamel like the sign of the cross.
“Yes. Yes, I know.
Pale blossoms on the breast
Amuse at best.
Rhyme’s better left to the radio
And twang to the whiney heart…..”
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