Anansi had no viable gripe with fried chicken,
America has its fair share of electrons,
latitudinarian as he was.

Instrument as well a game 
of feelings. Wintering in St. Louis.
His eight-legged eyes rolled 

distant from his trickster brain,
a little north of his belly,
and played shark on the tide of the day.

Jumping one tude to another
and still caricaturally stern, 
this serious bust

is an immodest horror flick,
Auschwitz on Elm Street, remade.
Those who suffer most from clime

have comedian gods. A silliness serialized.
These atoms show, under high-definition microscopes,
anger, fear beyond camp.

I haven't decided on flick or film. Film is more serious and solemn, and has a ghost rhyme with clime.
It's a ghost rhyme for two reasons. It's not a full rhyme and it's not in the direct path of rhythm.
I'll stay with flick. I could stick. Rhyme is redundant going down a hill to difference in a scheme of sense.

I could've said that he had no beef with fried chicken. But I didn't.

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