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Here in the suburbs of Boston there is a
James Joyce Ramble 10K race. It used to be a quirky, costume-clad array of Joyce-lovers who ran as they recited passages for all of his works. One year a woman calling herself Molly ran naked panting, "yes, yes, yes". Authorities stopped her before she got very far. Sadly, it has evolved into a competitive race. There is most definitely a poem in that. I'll try to spit it out.
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