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Last piece of paper
Fragrant fumes rose from my loins
On a porcelain platter, I dropped some coins
I wrote this poem while I sat
Do you realize now where I was at?
I was sitting on this same seat
I wonder, can you still feel my heat?
I know of this roll not much is left
I took the rest you could call it theft
Whether you like my poem is not the issue
You will have to use it as a tissue
Copyright © D Bronowski