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thanksgiving poetry

i despise my friends more than you
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
but i cannot read you now
your body's motion is like music
lived by the river-side
i do not pray for peace
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
gloom
if the red slayer think he slays
days endeared to every muse
perhaps
stir
let us pity those who are better off than we are
do i like it

 



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