Soon after the athletes had come home,
a brace of coin on hand,
the margin grew; the glist of chrome
was not enough, the land
spat forth its modicum of dust
that leaped and shot and tore and ran
to navigate the slag of lust,
but died, as shafted as it began.
The platinum fist, in a glove of steel,
heard "Sharpeville!"
But it could not feel.
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