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B is for Bad Poetry
Bruised, confused 
 And our hands on dry ice
 An unstructured block of genius 
 There are feet slipping through 
 Dull, rotted logs 
 And a large man with a machete 
 
 Battered legs swarmed and damp
 Blood trickles down white skin 
 It smells like paradise 
 With sweaty bodies and nervous laughter 
 Mossy, slippery rocks
 And a large man with a machete
 
 Black earth splattered screams 
 Water bottles clanking together
 Calming mantras as you fall for the 
 4th, 5th, 6th time 
 The realization that you're afraid of heights 
 And a large man with a machete

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