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Dear Mitt, Ann Coulter Has Phlogiston Pants

A pent up tree, in the words of Wordsworth, reaches a conclusion concerning Ann Coulter. Diatoms pluck life livingly in the sea. They see a world in which Ann Coulter sweats plums. These plums are her ideas, slightly rotten. The diatoms and radiant love reside in a potion of seawater, that will run to the skies as hurricane. And the rains will scorch the offerings presented as seriously as cows to the goddess Ann Coulter. And nothing will change, because change is nothing.

Ann Coulter, with crampons for teeth, is a defining smile on a painted apple. She is the next one in a long line, when we think that one line is never all. She is the position left in rags by mayors and senior advisors. She visits the backhoe of Rush Limbaugh or early stacks of newspapers, and decides on a license for dawn. Her union with emblematic mutter seems complete.

So we have these patches to consider:

1. Trees make paper if not memory

2. Wordsworth found ilk in the gathering of trees. Seriously!

3. Ann Coulter was a tree, before she read herself as paper.

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