imagine doing the thankless job of rivets 

hold together, you beleaguered son of a bitch 

hold together, this heaving, creaking hull
this, sinking, stinking patchwork glory 
made at the end of so many stubbed cigars
held wet, by the mouth
while two busy hands 
idled towards retirement , pounding away 
christening by the light of midnight oils, annointed 
(10 in 1!) 
in the warbled so...

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