that shutting your trap
at the very moment
that a pistol is pressed
against your temple
might be a wise move?
Don’t answer that.
Your little birdie,
with its dishevelled plumage
is with me now.
And the secret is out,
stirrers are born,
most of them, you see.
Some, however,
are conceived in
the twilight
of
loneliness.
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