A postcard,
desperate language smeared in haste,
scripts itself under the guise
of an expert marksman.
Adulterated by beaks, perhaps;
peck-holes infiltrate context,
and it is indiscernible, sir
—like scissors that snipped lamentable faces.
Scrawled from a shaky hand,
stiff and out of tune.
Slip it into the dusty voice box
with a post script—post haste.
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