If I cut my own throat,
Would the blood know its place,
And spurt in neat pools of one-eighth Welsh, German, and Dutch?
Would my jugular dutifully disgorge smaller gouts of Irish, English, and French,
And save a squirt or two for a forgotten Gambian and Arapaho?
Or would it all just flow together, slick and red,
Into a congealing lake of sticky brown,
Oblivious to the distinctions of genealogists?
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