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son poem

how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
in all things not spoken of
were it not for that singular smell
to some the fat gods
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
i burn no incense
old wine to drink
one with you
here lies a most beautiful lady
there by the window in the old house
there are gains for all our losses

 



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