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It is just cleaning the sewers when they back up
Putrid brown climbing out from every oriface on to the streets,
Smells that could be from Hell seeking the sun for its release.
The fresh air it contaminates as it oozes there before us.
I hear no trumpets that lie about it being glorious.
Those come from far away in thought and reality.
From those who in their duplicity must coax the bullets into the chambers
With flags and brags that minimize the slime, the fear, the dangers.
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