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child poetry

and breaketh bread no more
when i looked into your eyes
i know what you're going to say
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
they threw a stone, you threw a stone
though i am little as all little things
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
when night drifts along the streets of the city
beautiful, tragical faces
i love my life, but not too well
never in all my life
in september

 



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