The Cyclists
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pread on the roadway,With open-blown jackets,Like black, soaring pinions,They swoop down the hillside,The Cyclists. Seeming dark-plumagedBirds, after carrion,Careening and circling,Over the dyingOf England. She lies with her bosomBeneath them, no longerThe Dominant Mother,The Virile--but rottingBefore time. The smell of her, tainted,Has bitten their nostrils.Exultant they hover,And shadow the sun withForeboding.
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