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Jack Kerouac wrote me a song.

It was too rambling for me, though.

He sang out his heart and looked in my eyes

from the start,

And finished in due time.

His fingers bled,

He hung his head,

And let those drops drip off from his brow,

And down.

And as I write this,

His eyes come up.

He lifts his chin like a king lifts his

Cup,

With someone’s else’s hand.

Jack is a friend of mine.

What he lacks, I excuse with time.

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