The Glorious Disease

What glorious a disease it is

To have happiness in your hand.

To conjure years of lucidity

In those forgotten palms.

Infect me with that grand benevolence

So I can carry smiles

And cough genuine decorum

To allow laughter to gestate.

Let the plague rain down

And wash away those frugal frowns,

To murder those repetitions

And choke folly routines.

Let the contagion spread

And cover sorrow's 7 corners

And let pain be worth pennies

So millions may die for dollars.

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