From 3b37989606c44902d90a3723e197d8c318a302bf Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001
From: Case Duckworth
Date: Fri, 27 Mar 2015 13:47:42 -0700
Subject: Change verse lines '$' -> '^| '

---
 deathstrumpet.txt | 50 +++++++++++++++++++++++++-------------------------
 1 file changed, 25 insertions(+), 25 deletions(-)

(limited to 'deathstrumpet.txt')

diff --git a/deathstrumpet.txt b/deathstrumpet.txt
index 7ce5f45..44b898e 100644
--- a/deathstrumpet.txt
+++ b/deathstrumpet.txt
@@ -18,31 +18,31 @@ epigraph:
     attrib: Larry Levis
 ...
 
-He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing, \
-top to bottom.  It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine \
-begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese.  Death loved caprese.
-
-He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining \
-it was a woman he loved.  He blushed as he realized \
-it was a terrible metaphor.  \
-He practiced for six hours a day---what else to do?
-
-Death looks at [himself in the mirror][moongone] as he plays.  \
-The trumpet is suspended in midair.  Damn vampire rules.  \
-Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving \
-but he'll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.  \
-Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.
-
-He wakes up late these days.  Stays in bed later.  \
-He thinks he might be depressed.  The caprese has gotten soggy \
-since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.  \
-The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.  \
-He decides to go to the arcade.  When he gets there,
-
-there's only a [little boy][] with dead eyes.  So far so good.  \
-He's playing a first-person shooter.  Death walks past him \
-and watches out of the corner of his eye.  The kid's good.  \
-Death wants to congratulate him.  His trumpet is in his hand.
+| He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,
+| top to bottom.  It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine
+| begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese.  Death loved caprese.
+
+| He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining
+| it was a woman he loved.  He blushed as he realized
+| it was a terrible metaphor.
+| He practiced for six hours a day---what else to do?
+
+| Death looks at [himself in the mirror][moongone] as he plays.
+| The trumpet is suspended in midair.  Damn vampire rules.
+| Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving
+| but he'll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.
+| Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.
+
+| He wakes up late these days.  Stays in bed later.
+| He thinks he might be depressed.  The caprese has gotten soggy
+| since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.
+| The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.
+| He decides to go to the arcade.  When he gets there,
+
+| there's only a [little boy][] with dead eyes.  So far so good.
+| He's playing a first-person shooter.  Death walks past him
+| and watches out of the corner of his eye.  The kid's good.
+| Death wants to congratulate him.  His trumpet is in his hand.
 
 [moongone]: moongone.html
 [little boy]: angeltoabraham.html
-- 
cgit 1.4.1-21-gabe81