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Let’s meet under the corner flap
of this old dog-eared Mariner’s Map
Feathered from the winds of change
but ink still dark and wise

We may not meet another soul
to stray so far from hoarded gold
Why call yourself a runaway
if not to cut your ties?

It’s time we cultivate the hurt
Part the sea and raise our dirt
No man can be an island
living in the Land of Eyes

So won’t you rail with tooth and nail
to find this hidden treasure trail?
To sweep yourself under the rug
and let the hot air rise?

It takes a tough and tender grit
Red lipstick and Black cowboy spit
Dancing as all lovers do
when mixing truth and lies



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