Getting at the Really True Number
No water-drinker ever wrote a poem that lasted. –Horace
Our wearisome calculations have
ended the blue ( ) results may
only be farmed by nuns and water-
drinkers ( ) tolerant
in the long dream.
You cultivate indoor plants
we laugh, deathless. Until
the translation, meaning
molested. Hark!
Seventy!
(I used a prompt suggested by Robin at Kelli Russell Agodon's very cool Book of Kells.)
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