I keep getting worse.  The doctors say it's nothing
to worry about.  Jesus' no help either.  He talks
about sluttish fruit and demands payment
for my Singapore soul.  I tell him my blood
tears like a net, and while patient like Job,
 
I do want that bullet removed, now: nao e a morte
mas a vida.  He laughs, says
I don't speak Spanish, and besides, I belong to earth,
so much so it won't notice my intrusion.

 

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