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Pimp Shoes. Poem. Sonnet. Phillip Fried.
Did I mean to stalk the streets in cothurni? Shit, no. I just failed to foresee the precarious vaudeville wobble as the head with its chorus surveys what’s unsteady below, its kibitzing voices tsk-tsking a double hobble (another fine mess chalked up to clueless hubris), hands groping for balan