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grandmother poem

the old west, the old time
what do i owe to you
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
with her hair flaying wildly
tell me less or tell me more
for these white arms about my neck
backward, turn backward
now while my lips are living
lo! 'tis a gala night
master of human destinies am i
he's gone
there is an hour of peaceful rest

 



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