All blues fade along with the howling smoke from my cigar;
In our stare, our eyeballs shiver like the string of country guitar;
In the smell of dust faced to plain in the blond glimmer of the afternoon;
Mouth’s taste lemon, hazing gaze, and moron befall the head, carry me in wagon;
To yellow, orange in after, turn to red as us in youth, then the night in solemn;
Thus I must celebrate in a poem.
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