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poem

i've won the race
if i should die, think only this of me
it tells of good old times
they may talk of love in a cottage
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
above them all, looking down
it was a tall young oysterman
this is the arsenal
skies they were ashen and sober
by the rude bridge
give me hunger
we who stood
we break the glass whose sacred wine
when a deed is done for freedom

 



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