120

The coast is clear for nomadic intrigue;

let the great gray horde slalom into place
in space that spans an historical league,
where earth is fruitful, but the seed disgrace:
I've done no wrong, but we must be undone,
unhinged and unlocked, gunned down by the mass
of floating smoke; the masses loom as one,
and I inhale, exhausted after class:
She wears a gold bullet around her neck,
on a string, of course, but where is the gun
that embraced the air, worthed out of space wreck? 
And what is her name, her hair a frayed sun?
You could call her Laura, but the crown fell,
shot off by a drunk playing William Tell.
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