“Does schmutz attack your shoulder, Mac?
Sit better angels there?
Perhaps responsibility
rests heavy? Do I err?
You bear, perhaps, a chip? Or straps
from golf club bags which tear?Your coif's a jock’s: no quiffs, no locks –
no bigly leader hair.
Rests Brigitte’s blonde head there, mon frere?
What’s that, then? Laissez-faire?
Stand dwarflings, shedding, on your shoulders?
That’s your own affair.
Aides tell me that you’re perfect,
that it's my job to take careyou stay that way. So, for today,
you shall no dandruff wear.”
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