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It hangs down from the chandelier
Nobody knows quite what it does
Its color is odd and its shape is weird
It emits a high-sounding buzz
It grows a couple of feet each day
and wriggles with sort of a twitch
Nobody bugs it 'cause it comes from
a visiting uncle who's rich!
-- To "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear"
Your worship is your furnaces
which, like old idols, lost obscenes,
have molten bowels; your vision is
machines for making more machines.
🔋 -- 🐊 -- 🌸 -- 🎫 -- 👑 -- 👹 -- 🎄 -- 🚕 -- 🍆 -- 🐳 -- 🐛 -- 💃 -- 🌽 -- 🎽 -- 🥞