Sonnet: The Incorcist
by John Kendall Hawkins
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The big bad wolf was at her throat all goddamn day --
snarls and growls and generally carrying on,
intent on making her seem the Devil in Miss Jones.
She was a little Red, hiding good. They smoked bones,
trying to figure out what to do. She saw their con;
the cappie's were crazed -- surely, there must be a way
into her soul of souls, some jingle or adsense,
some way of tickling her fancy, feather her needs,
but Wolfman Jack was hitting the Jack hard and whole.
They called in an incorcist, voodoo man, black coal.
Rattled this, shook that, pin pricks, tried to plant some seeds,
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