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Taking into consideration all your lovelinesswhy can’t you burn your bootsoles and yourdraft card? How can you sit there saying yesto war? You’ll be a pauper when you die, soreboy. Dead, while I still live at our addresss.Oh my brother, why do you keep making planswhen I am at seizures of hearts and hands?Come dance the dance, the Papa-Mama dance;bring costumes from the suitcase pasted Ille de France, the S.S. Gripsholm. Papa’s London Harness case he took abroad and kept i our attic laced with old leather straps for storage and hisscholar’s robes, black licorice – that metamorphosiswith it’s crimson blood. “The Papa and Mama Dance
