Charlie the Spiderrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
I star down from the ceiling
my room always tranquil and quiet
every now and then a man appears
he must be a poet
he writes a lot
when he has his glass of wine
there is a second one always for me
he talks now and then
whether to me or himself a mystery
he seems almost as sad though
as my web of misery
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