Each Fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown hills and red gullies of Mississippi send out their electric messages, galvanizing my genes.
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Well, hell, lil sis, wasps still sting.
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In the beginning was the word, And in the end the deed. Judas did it to Jesus; Tor the same Herd. Same Reason. You made them mad, Malcolm, Same reason.
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I sit counting syllables like Midas gold.
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