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to conform to the rhythm of thought
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In his naked and endless head,
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the madman bum and angel beat in time,
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unknown, yet putting down here
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what might be left to say in time come after death,
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and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz
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In the goldhorn shadow of the band
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and blew the suffering of
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America's naked mind for love
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Into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry
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That shivered the cities down to the last radio
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with the absolute heart of the poem of life