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Robert Johnson Feet
I walk, with Robert Johnson feet,
down to the crossroads.
I wish to make a deal,
but not with the Morning Star.
I stand on suicide ground
above planted criminals,
waiting for Diana to help me hunt.
�Would you be a muse,�
I�ll ask the goddess.
I�m looking for everything.
Will her arrows and dogs
point me there?
Will the crescent of her moon
shine it�s light upon my
destination?
Will her hand wrap
around mine, wrapped
around a pen
pressed to page?
I�m going to the crossroads,
with a sick dog at my heels.
He walks behind,
leading no longer.
More reserved,
he walks behind,
smelling the death ahead.
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