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“Then, as if in unbelief, We clad our separate selves In a dead rasp Of pimpled chicken skin, And picked the spots One by one and Watched as the blood signed its thin red Hand on our throats.” — Gordon Roddick
Then, as if in unbelief,
We clad our separate selves
In a dead rasp
Of pimpled chicken skin,
And picked the spots
One by one and
Watched as the blood signed its thin red
Hand on our throats.