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Poem	Take a hold now On the silver handles here, Six silver handles, One for each of his old pals. Take hold And lift him down the stairs, Put him on the rollers Over the floor of the hearse. Take him on the last haul, To the cold straight house, The level even house, To the last house of all. The dead say nothing And the dead know much And the dead hold under their tongues A locked-up story.
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