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In a Pit at Wit's End
Stir crazy with an anchor to condemn
me to the depths of whatever, wherein
I might have been left to fester if not
for my hatred of the smell of the rot.
I'll wield my shackles like two morning stars;
careless of the blood I spray while swinging,
ringing the changes by cast iron flail
and lusting for guts to rend with my nails.
