My Love Shant Bend
My Love Shan’t Bend!
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Well! You marry an aged man,
Supported by specs or a stick,
Mentally sick, sexually sterile, and emotionally fed,
And or he calls you his second-wife!
Are in hot humid summers
The faint wafts of breeze, which in their way die…
Even rises if any storm
And blows the whirling wind,
My love—shan’t bend!
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