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I shall find me almond runaways,
from the the rock thrusts of hungry gleaners,
on the road or at sideways.
I'd pick them up and divine whether they're "green" or ripe.
I never minded which was which,
it all tasted the same; needed and hard.
I'd crush the shell with high command of breaking-and-entering.
These days they tell me it's an aphrodisiac.
I tell them: people, I love sex, but almond for me only means an afternoon of throwing rocks and chewing sounds and sweetness.