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 Jan 2015 Paul Jack
Haydn Swan
The milk of human kindness,
a bitter tincture to swallow,
hold the nose, sip it down,
malaise caught in a furrowed frown,

never to bite the hand that feeds,
just gnaw at the skin until it bleeds
the masters table has room for all,
fain take our fill from the crumbs that fall.

— The End —