To be made subject
That's an object
Of the id
And the constant guard
No longer old

Because time
Was too standard
For the range of things
Lower down won't
Raise up

A title clings to its rectangle
To wait for text
While a genre's category
Is always the next

To be personshod
A shoe fits 
But one human foot
A taker's dozen
Custom built
For the standard rejection
That no longer brooks an option

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