The New Romanticism

It’s that time again,
time to grease your grimace.
Time to fleece those finicky fiends
who scheme at the margins.
The barge barges in,
and soon, it’s a cakewalk.
We’re all talk around here.
Gilded gab. Flabbergasted
by ritual and ready to plow.
Judging by the brow on your sweat,
I’d say somebody’s nervous.
Impervious to puzzles,
I abide by the brick.

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