Mumps on the side of my face, I mean neck,
as I span the distance from Greece to Spain,
when I crunch the page but turn back to check
if the heroes inserted feel the pain:
Like Alexander, I have gone too far,
from Macedonia, to France, Spain, Persia,
you are what you speak, you speak why you are,
but pages turn words into nostalgia:
What does this all mean? Well, ask the Sheriff,
the reeve of the Shire, Christ bearing or not,
as unctuous prophets may bribe the bailiff,
you swallow so hard before you are shot:
But the firing squad will give you the time
to swallow and breathe, to write down and climb.

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