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Green Label

Our eight-spoked wagon wheel,
a caravan of gypsies,
rolls, grining, forth.

Beyond Texas horizons our dreams lie,
dilated as bright eyes,
beyond fresh good-byes.

We will busk from the tops of trees,
eat from charred cans,
make love in the dark.

'Till the carrion birds cry,
the roads turn to dust,
and we lie, a smoldering ruin.

Still a smile on every face.

                                                  -- Evan Williams

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