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XX

May 31, 2013

Its silken folds fall darkly down;
its fibers smooth, its weave the best;
its crest of gold, and red, and brown—
resplendent vinyl on the chest;
and down the back a pointed hood,
lined richly with maroon quite pale;
of perfect length, a fit so good,
it sweeps the dust from off my trail;
upon its hem show signs of war—
incendio, the likely cause—
the fibers fused and smooth no more
around the holes like gaping maws.
A bathrobe now is how it’s worn—
since long it’s been since that Great Hall—
its hem all ripped and shoulder torn,
no longer uniform, but called
my Robe of Plus Six Comfort.

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