A Creatures a Creature No Matter How Small
The lyric deft and yet bereft, its logic baldly doffed:
an heir in err, a progeny ‘twas not untimely off’d.
In aggregate, the follicles that sprout the facial hair,
protrude a plain that’s primed for pain, as microbes nestle there.
To mow the glade with steely blade creates a field of woe;
the pain-free knight, his own mote smites, so mites midst hair might grow.
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