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The Tuesday Paper


By Ben Moss

The tuesday paper isn’t
Good for much
A lousy blunt instrument
A lousy crutch

I couldn’t sell it as a broom
Nor as a horn
Nor as tomb

How happy I was
Though
To have that tuesday paper
When a 3-foot cousin fell off the roof

Writhing in pain
Then
Jackson’s wound spit fluid
Like a ballplayer spits Redman

So
For an hour Jackson gushed blood
Into a tuesday headline
About a cliff gushing mud

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