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wipe the river that flows from your eyes oh dancing woman before the gong. Your birth was formed from the apple of feather's ink In it has your doom being nurture. Why is your heart in an unending race, Are you the Israelites, while their saviour came and yet embraced? Making Him a thief while puzzling His birth from the herod's palace. Sssshhhhh.... Your water is never a marah but your mother is made a glorified woe by your premature birth. Your birth to pyrate has made you a self-aclaimed woe. Hmmmm... you need not to be blame but the drummers' sweetless tunes to your mother for their glorious reign. Alas, oh be of tidings for your time of glory has come, This we know to have been the hours of change. Please, please do embrace it and train your son from the feather's ink. That he will drain the river laid in your eyes for two scores and sixteen years, And fulfill the purpose of his birth for the everlasting reign of our future heroes.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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