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The stage is set for imminent disaster. Here is the little tramp, standing On a stack of books in order To reach the microphone, the Poet he’s impersonating somehow Trussed and mumbling in a Tweed bundle at his feet. He opens his mouth: Tra-la! Out comes doves, incandescent bulbs, Plastic roses. Well, that’s that, Squirms the young professor who’s Coordinated this, No more visiting poets! His department head groans For the trap door. As it Swings away The tramp keeps on as if Nothing has occurred, A free arm mimicking A wing. ----- Copyright © 1997 by Cornelius Eady. Used by permission of the author. Source: The Autobiography of a Jukebox (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1997)