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poem: Corran
Corran
Kelly plays the mandolin. Our man from Donegal stood in with van Morrison in
Belfast one time. "Van called me golden," Corran says. Now his
nails are black, there's a sore on his thumb, and hard-times are more than
a highway. A dollar seventy will buy him a tea here in Starbucks. Will
it pave my way home?
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