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A long face, a
knot of heavy hands
announces what I am about to do.
Television’s solemnest M.C. convinces
faithful millions to stay tuned for
four shaggy guys from England
and a ventriloquist, my modest song
still in the wings rehearsing
till his voice booms, arm thrown back,
curtain crumpling like another sheet of paper.
This, right now, is my big chance to prove
I can tap-dance sixteen lines back
and forth to entertain and enlighten you.
If he thinks I can, the act will follow.
My heart pounds, he speaks my name.
I’ll be quick, almost perfect.
He’ll make you applaud like it’s Sunday night.
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