Terror, the man who gets my skin,
Is the smoothest fellow in
The marketplace; backslapper
In checkered vest and diamond pin,
He winks in stalls of sale or barter
As though he knew he had a kill
In each fool-impacted corner
Where I wait, like any other
Hoarder, wound about my will
Till he frankly comes and surely
Feels the coiling weight that thrills
To any touch of pirate skill.
Then from body loosed and surly,
My shadow runs to trail the burly
Fellow rustling rolls of skin,
And dances there and sniggers queerly.
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