Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Debris Headed To The Washington Coast From Japan

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the auzure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Into a Nike shoe his foot rots;
A shoe made in a factory by little tots,
Underpaid non-union slaves
Pieces of feet upon the waves.

-Tennyson in the modern age

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