I still had some plans for my epic poem about the selection of the mayor of Chicago at this point, apparently:
For “the king is dead”: white selects its kingly candidate with a poker game (seven card stud, no doubt).
[illegible] Theͯ déck iͯs cút, men círcleͯ aͯroúnd.
Fiͯftý-twͯo cárds [illegible] foͯr thé choͯice óf a prince,
More embarrassingly bad scansion (putting x’s and /’s on top of words doesn’t magically transform the text into iambs). The fact that I crossed out and scribbled out everything that I wrote on this shows, though, that I clearly had a sense that what I’d written was garbage.
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