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Poem	I feel Very much Like taking Its unholy perpetrators By the hair Of their heads (If they have any hair) And dragging them around A few times, And then cutting them Into small, irregular pieces And burying them In the depths of the blue sea. They are without form And void,/ Or at least The stuff they/ produce Is./ They are too lazy To hunt up rhymes; And that Is all That is the matter with them.
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