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On the hotel-room telly, Bing and Grace
and Frank-all dead, yet here so young-in High
Society, a parable of how the rich
are truly better. "True Love" makes me cry.
Around me, dampness, golfing togs all soaked,
even the Dryjoys wet, wool sweaters rank
as sheep, their originals, and the sea
foaming beyond the windswept, rainswept links.
I fought...