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Jazz Face
By Stephen Martin

the mic awaits
an empty stage
a clockwork jazz
into the age

we all are bad
we all are mad
upon the day
we run away

a drummer drums
a hummer hums
through lips of coal
around the hole

we drive a car
before we walk
we trace our maze
with sidewalk chalk

spin the spoon
on fingertip
seize the mood
then let her rip

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