Coconuts

Is this a lovely bunch of coconuts I see before me,
The handle toward my hand?
Come, let me stand them in a row.
I have them not, and yet they’re big ones,
Small ones,
Some as big as my head.
Art thou not, fatal vision,
What the showman said?
Or art thou but a coconut of the mind, a false creation
That rolls up bowls a ball a penny a pitch?

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