Page 80a

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And so when the chequered tablecloths
And the laughs of merry harlots
Behold this last putrescent shril??
To the foetid bre??

I thought of our old song and
A blue river under an old bridge
And colour on a faded canvas
And esoteric similes of friendly women

Against the dark and raving pain
Of a poet’s eye and then I thought of Beatrice

(Dashed off by Ellis in a post liberation binge at the Brasserie Universelle, Piccadilly)

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