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There are No Fathers in Heaven

There are 
Gunshots
In my soup
Seeping through my 
Four-track recording
The quaint 
Whisper of 
An education liason
Chalky residue 
Is on the sheets and
The windows 
Don’t let 
The businessman
Or the scientist
Ruin your dream
Ruin your life 
Your swivel chair
Has a syrupy 
Drool running 
Along its lumbar
Holding onto
An easy 
Cushion of
Mediocrity

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