Everyone wants a chance to tell his own story –
seven seconds of fame, one of glory.
When the fated time comes, you will find it your last;
as far as you may know it has already passed.
Now, you may find this too readily true;
but you cannot deny it to be roundly put
though the filler be no more than if, and, or but.
For truth is a gap which the real peers through
and the form’s self-relation is often askew,
like Whitman’s well-traveled bridge with its fifty links.
C’mon, fellow sinners, let’s plunder the chinks!
At Graceland we’ll rob the King of his Cadillac
and floor the mother across America’s back,
paint an image of Lincoln on the hood
and sing a rousing chorus of “Johnny B. Goode.”
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