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Mr. Death, when you came to the ovens it was short
and to the drowning man you were likewise kind,
and the nicest of all to the baby I had to abort
and middling you were to all the crucified combined.
But when it comes to my death let it be slow,
let it be pantomine, this last peep show,
so that I may squat at the edge trying on
my black necessary trousseau.
anne sexton
5:27 AM
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