| I am a monster
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| Like Quasimodo
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| Or Caliban the natural man
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| Giving wild ripostes to my reflection
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| One ugly morning
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| In a rage
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| Father threw an apple
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| Into my carapace
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| And like the invisible man
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| Directing traffic
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| I’d be ineffective
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| No matter how enthusiastic
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| Amid the masses' frenzy
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| Participation
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| In this massive
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| Separation
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| Appearance is everything
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| Nothing is how it seems
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| And civilized society
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| Is calm civility
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| I’m the phantom of the opera
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| Singing beauty and at ease
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| Or Henry Darger’s
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| Autobiography
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| And that is curt clues to my essence
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| Planned obsolescence
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| Appearance is everything
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| Nothing is how it seems
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| In a market economy
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| It’s called marketing
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| And not exactly clawing my way to glory
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| Nor whimpering in the wind
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| But once positively
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| I’m teetering on the brink
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| Of an all-out breakthrough
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| But sometimes clear-headed
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| Sometimes a doofus
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| Sometimes very cordial
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| And sometimes aloof
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| I am syrupy optimistic one moment
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| Then gravely pessimistic the next
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| Irritable as a hornet sometimes
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| Then agreeable as it gets
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| I’m not a pagan
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| I don’t worship anything
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| Not gods that don’t exist
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| Nor the sun which is oblivious
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| I love my ancestors but not ritually
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| I don’t blame them or praise them
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| For anything that they passed along to me
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| I don’t need stone altars to help me hedge my bet
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| Against the looming blackness
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| It is what it is |