If T.S. Eliot was a rabid dog,
Running along the fence on a street in my neighborhood,
I would most probably avoid that street,
I would seek out alternative routes.
I see you now, dog.
Mangled morphemes dripping from your gleaming incisors,
Snorting out obscure epithets,
Shitting impossible symbolism all over the grass!
How I detest you!
I will let you loose in Ezra Pound’s backyard.
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