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 UPON thy purple mat thy body bare 
Is fine and limber like a tender tree.
The motion of thy supple form is rare, Like a lithe panther lolling languidly, Toying and turning slowly in her lair.
Oh, I would never ask for more of thee, Thou art so clean in passion and so fair.
Enough! if thou wilt ask no more of me!

by Claude McKay
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