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Poem	Securely sunning in a forest glade, A mild, well-meaning snake Approved the adaptations he had made For safety’s sake. He liked the skin he had— Its mottled camouflage, its look of mail, And was content that he had thought to add A rattling tail. The tail was not for drumming up a fight; No, nothing of the sort. And he would only use his poisoned bite As last resort.
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