A Shell Game in Florence
A siren sounds – meekly, I think, for the police
All along the street I watch the black ears perk and Give a little twitch before their Owners cinch the cloths on which The goods have been displayed Into a purse and flatten out the Cardboard tables which they tuck Under their arms to file away as one, Led by an unseen hand, no doubt To give the cops a rest – and them Another chance to make a buck
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