Instead

The pink whistle wearing thin, they settled on the mauve.

When boxes threatened  overload, they cut out carton flags.

Ideas tumbling in hazen rivulets were picked off, one by one,

With shotgun polished, wit so sharpened.

 

May the treasure hunt of the mind commence!

 

Still, the crack at the very centre, silent foe, widened each day,

Till they no longer could bear to step forward

And peer at the abyss one wrong word away.

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