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life poetry

the old west, the old time
now while my lips are living
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
who will be naming the wind
noises that strive to tear
a pen of steel
the pale day drowses on the western steep
backward, turn backward
were it not for that singular smell
take my bracelets
on and on
i despise my friends more than you
it tells of good old times

 



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