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RECIPE FOR A NOMAD
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Once your goose is cooked
Serve it smothered in gray, lumpy self-pity
With a flaming hot side dish of blaming others
Serve this morning, noon, and night
Until you are heartily sick of this meal
Then you begin to forage for something with nutrition
And leave the sackcloth and ashes
To blow away in the winds of change
Which never let up and sculpt our landscape wonderfully
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