The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock
let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky,
like a patient etherised upon a table;
let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels,
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
to lead you to an overwhelming question…
oh, do not ask, “what is it?”
let us go and make our visit.
And then:
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