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03 Poetry Analysis 1
03 Poetry Analysis 1
by Peter Porter
I slap the mozzie on my hand,
the blood is mine, the black its all,
that this one second might befall;
it can't, but I can understand
the rule - in whose court is the ball?
What said of it that I should kill it
since late or soon I'd have to scratch?
No password, sesame or millet,
urged: lift the multi-treasured latch.
As well defrost a piece of fillet
and brave a blood this blood to match.