TO PRESIDENT JACKSON, SECRETARY OF WAR.

But who might filch
The crown
From the Pluto-
nian pole

From which one copper string con-
ducts the eel-(s)harp charge,
The eel-sharp charge that in-
dubitably puts to an icy rest–

with ruthless regard to these leatherbacks, smocks; not-
withstanding the corona-

virus’ smog now, already, beginning to self-destruct,
Reich over your own dear heads.

That it’s true, that they’d rather keep up their habit for spit-fire, rifling hot shot-gun cartons of nano-slugs at (Ja!, Ja!, Ja!) our kids.

 
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