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Mr. Macabre

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Mr. Macabre, sing to me from the throat
of twilight’s carburetors, inhaling,
getting stoned from exhausting manifolds.
Shifting into overdrive with an angel
on my back, whispering, “It’s a Long Way
to Tipperary.” As the engine screams,
against the dark as cold fingers grip
my shoulders. Mr. Macabre sings to me,
a eulogy.

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