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SILVAN'S AND THE NIGHT FOOZLES
Silvan's and the night foozles,
Amidst sting plenty oodles ,
Singeing some logs,Wanton to
mawup throes,
Heavy heartening, Without a
day, Sighing for the miracle, If
could set their foots off these
marshy pinnacle, Silvans! much
less tastes wrung a romps,
What
came off could in cot have them
fops, If not reprobation, Much
while they were alive, Hereafter
would even as,Resat and crowed
over some tides, Which resort
mankinds, Yea right in its mind,
And ounce of time, With a close
sift , The old furry'd
unbecomingly , For yet to come
after in extant looking like clone
of its real self, A percentile prod
to plot, Left some fog onto their
crown slur, Whose thoughts in
broad worn its outer looks,In
these our day-about, Better off
baled in a chafe, Somebody's
marimba, Refusing to apt,
Would we mind a therapical
whine, Of course not; the
contrails after cedes a
wonk,When it muses loomed
like mooch, A
rout racing plodded on a trifling
earthly desks, with a bunny
darting deftness, Doleful
mugwumps, looking very
solemn,Misnomer what if has
known by, And vents it inside
owns spleen, Thought our bare
soles are be-shrewd, only to
rend thine whorled.
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