What's ailing my stomach,
Is causing me a heartache,
And a backache,
Ache like an acne,
Stubborn
Stubborn to the bone marrow
To the morrow
With chances so narrow
For glances
Or advances shallow
But piecing my heart like an arrow
Causing my hurt.
Looks like it is my thorn
Thorn in my throne
Throne of my flesh
That makes me fresh
Fresh every fresh day
Without a proud look
But in this...
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