I call on all older poets to kindly die,
on all the Greatest Generation schussing dust,
on all the crotchety Boomers stuffed into too tight,
too young dungarees in futility against the wrinkles
to generally step aside, take a dignified dose
of cyanide and make way for the young and the no-longer-
quite-so-young, those few in count but patient
in
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