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Aug 2014
A tasteless, formless meal, encased in vintage wrapping,
a trendy snack.

Layer yourselves,
in the linens of your Grandfathers,
You are the In crowd.
Sell your soul,
for a moth-eaten cardigan,
You are a hit now.

Put on the mask and continue the charade,
You     are
Fleeting.
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Written by
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469
     Paul Butters
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