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4
3
2
1
and we start counting down
Costumes put away in attics
At a float's approach the
Throw me som'pin mistah
yells the crowd along the curb
crowds surge the street en masse
The riders throw them something
as if they could be heard
or closets in the hall
Last fling before the austere
The roar of human masses drowns
out single voice or thought
days of Lent we celebrate
Only beads-doubl
oons-trinket
s
appease the crowd's onslaught
