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rocking and rolling over lofty incantations
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which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
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who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
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on Madison Avenue
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amid blasts of leaden verse
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and the tanked up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion
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and the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising
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and the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors,
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or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
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would you say that "Howl" has any literary merit?
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Yes.
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And I presume you understand the whole thing, is that right?