Once upon a time, before rhymes, we would grunt
our songs, pour out our hearts in howls, devour
whatever personal dialect soared or slurred
our songs, pour out our hearts in howls, devour
whatever personal dialect soared or slurred
from our low-brow lips. We would roar numb
muscles into existence, lore pulled
up from ocean floors, down from trees. Cup
of speech won through war, and love.
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