From 643d9ceb308c206a6e572c7c555168ff0ca60bc1 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Fri, 27 Mar 2015 15:40:42 -0700 Subject: Fix #5: Verse typesetting Thanks to the pandoc-discussion thread at , line breaks in verse have been converted to s, which enables the CSS to style them with hanging indents, given a too-small viewport. This commit also includes a makefile edit to reflect this change, and the Haskell source and executable of the pandoc filter. --- ronaldmcdonald.html | 16 ++++++++-------- 1 file changed, 8 insertions(+), 8 deletions(-) (limited to 'ronaldmcdonald.html') diff --git a/ronaldmcdonald.html b/ronaldmcdonald.html index 504c630..b2fdf11 100644 --- a/ronaldmcdonald.html +++ b/ronaldmcdonald.html @@ -36,14 +36,14 @@
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When Ronald McDonald takes off his striped shirt,
his coveralls, his painted face: when he no longer looks
like anyone or anything special, sitting next to women

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in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery,
is he no longer Ronald? Is he no longer happy to kick
a soccer ball around with the kids in the park,

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is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french fries
he gets for his fifty percent off? I’d like to think
that he takes Ronald off like a shirt, hangs him

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in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk.
I’d like to believe that we are able to slough off selves
like old skin and still retain some base self.

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Of course we all know this is not what happens.
The Ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same who
the next day kicks at a ball the size of a head.

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He is the same that hugs his children at night,
who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they’re
not so tired to make it work, who smiles holding

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a basket of fries in front of a field. He cannot
take off the facepaint or the yellow gloves. They are
stuck to him like so many feathers with the tar

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of his everyday associations. His plight is that
of everyone’s—we are what we do who we are.

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When Ronald McDonald takes off his striped shirt,his coveralls, his painted face: when he no longer lookslike anyone or anything special, sitting next to women

+

in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery,is he no longer Ronald? Is he no longer happy to kicka soccer ball around with the kids in the park,

+

is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french frieshe gets for his fifty percent off? I’d like to thinkthat he takes Ronald off like a shirt, hangs him

+

in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk.I’d like to believe that we are able to slough off selveslike old skin and still retain some base self.

+

Of course we all know this is not what happens.The Ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same whothe next day kicks at a ball the size of a head.

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He is the same that hugs his children at night,who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they’renot so tired to make it work, who smiles holding

+

a basket of fries in front of a field. He cannottake off the facepaint or the yellow gloves. They arestuck to him like so many feathers with the tar

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of his everyday associations. His plight is thatof everyone’s—we are what we do who we are.