Press your finger
Feel the pain.
It’s not right
Until it comes again.

The wash of yesterdays
The fields of blame.
They never let you
End this game.

You stand up to it
Mouth in clench.
Never resting
On any bench.

You laugh and dance
You work the crowd.
You don’t much worry
If you do it loud.

And then you retire
To your cell and ponder
Where and when and how
You wonder.

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