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Poem	A Dying Tiger -- moaned for Drink -- I hunted all the Sand -- I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand -- His Mighty Balls -- in death were thick -- But searching -- I could see A Vision on the Retina Of Water -- and of me -- 'Twas not my blame -- who sped too slow -- 'Twas not his blame -- who died While I was reaching him -- But 'twas -- the fact that He was dead --
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