The image of one’s self we hold,
a horrid, dreadful thing,
as in the papers, magazines,
no ugly face shall spring.

These airbrushed photos of our tribe,
this long and fruitful nation,
shall lead us in to time untold
of endless imitation.

What hurt can be the hurt we hold,
to dream of better lives,
to spin a tale of false embrace,
a woven tale contrived?

“To be or not to be,”
that is still the question,
that we the people must unfold
through all this long obsession.



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