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Cottons Southern Man
More than a man, the south made.
Black and white, south one started,
great oaks refused no man a child
to hang about it, call dark christmas.
Hallow was a name, old now hollow.
Stigma inside wears grey cotton
memories, alive die uncompensated.
Here, electricity has that sick sweet
smell about it, as if it were once alive.
While morality, debates in pockets
of isolated votes packed together.
Is It Poetry
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Poetry Is It
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