Popularity Contest

It’s a sad song,when the man wins,/by humming tunes, /sitting in craters,/to watch a shape reflecting.//The hum sounds like /the sounds on the radio./we owe radio to Marconi./Every now and then,/a woman wins/ they both /bleed before the camera./Its’ signal light/ flags them down even through fumes./ When the man won /the song(like I told you)/was a sad one/a bruise inflicted/inherited from thoughts of other giants./ A wife who wasn’t tall at all./ He waits for when his song wins The song finally won;/it/leaves everyone agog./ Replaced by time and meter ,/wrapped a little easier, / in a shrouded gut/but no more./To visit totems /they find echos/d/in weights tethered,/to a promise between them. Mirthless giants mask options,/easily regarded,/they beg your pardon./Summer waits for the hemisphere/as simpler thrills assemble.

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