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anniversary poem

there is a country full of wine
sadly speaking
my soul is a dark ploughed field
tripping up, falling down
in the dark and peace of my final bed
it was a tall young oysterman
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
beneath the warrior's helm
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
high-born race

 



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