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The blood jet is poetry, there is no stopping it / O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord / I hold with those who favor fire / The revolution will not be televised / Into a moonless black, deep in the brain, far back /  Things as they are are changed upon the blue guitar / You got to be a spirit, can’t be no ghost / The darkness surrounds us, what can we do against it / Unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in his wings / And I shall be wanting to be rid of this thing till the end of my days / Lay down these words before your mind like rocks / Every morning I forget how it is / I say to the lead why did you let yourself be cast into a bullet / We few, we happy few, we band of brothers / Get thee behind me, Satan / Without this the days would be thin sticks thrown down in a clutter of leaves / Death needs time for what it kills to grow in / Man hands on misery to man it deepens like a coastal shelf / Let us therefore follow after the things which make for peace / How many brothers fell victim to the streets /And yet do I marvel at this curious thing to make a poet black and bid him sing / What happens to a dream deferred /  Be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only /  By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rime, and to be melancholy / She’d a been a good woman if there’d a been someone there to shoot her every day of her life /  Only connect /  Art hath an enemy called Ignorance 

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