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You are like a black, smudged streak of burnt rubber
on the centerpiece, for all to see.
I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s that white pavement,
its plane perpendicular to the asphalt;
that’s where you are, all laid out.
All played out were the sidewalk a plateau,
and you, a fresh crater on the cliff’s side.
Things like you are not of this planet.
A hole is what you are,
a whole lot of substance and friction.
A collision,
the Australian outback despises you
as the cliff sides of sidewalks do.
We would all do much better without you,
but we all drive,
and our wheels are made of rubber too.

14 Mar 07

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I have no idea why, but this absolutely, absolutely apeals to me.

Things like you are not of this planet. I love it.
 — PollyReg

Very good ty
 — unknown

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