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A Passion I So Much Sighing For
A passion I so much sighing for,
A gruelling journey'd on those
rocky toe,
From the far east toftstead,
Held by the Eurus in its lefthand,
The other with a stiletto,
Whetstone on my head
leftmost prop,
If had lest it went blunt,
Fortnight in the months of
octobers advent, Yearly calls for
celebration ,Of new yarm
festives,
rented air in its prohibitive
rendition,
To watch our men pound the
earthing,
With their broad heels a
renaling, Through this lonely
way a little boy groan, In close
sift as the little old drown,
Eftsoons the awl for the first
notch, Standing men on their
feet a deaths defying act, The
proud and the greed for that
yaks, A singer will sung the living
out of themselves And wriggled
their tongue for men to toggle, A
cab driver'd mistook wraiths for
scholars, Poor minstrel with dirk
in the bight of my hand, Had in
time fretted the chief thumb like
tongs, Fiddling its string up to
my jugular.
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