I refuse to become undone by all this nonsensical confessionality.
Old cylinder of scratchy wax breathes a determinatively bitter sigh
Of pure rhetoric called America, atavistic slender lie pinstreak through faint afterglow of übervoxic tonesbout law, love, freedom, strength now all long undone.
The voice and poem that of Whitman, tis alleged, courtesy of Edison, now dead
According to eighteen hundred eighty-eight correspondence flying inkwrought between alacrities of starchcollar clerks, lickspittle coachwheel steward’s assistants, cupbearers of tricolor nectar twixt Jersey and Massachusetts
“Young brave strong law free love” etcetera in faint tint of eardrum speckled unmeant to dim rasp of stentorian pretension.
That’s the confession.