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The Greed of Men
Who wanted without the knowing
And grew without the sowing
Standing there in awkward stance
Viewing all with eyes askance
Asking without reasoned why
Reaching vain to touch the sky
For in whose hands with futile grip
The beams of sun and moon doth slip
And lips that sing the lullabies
Seldom heard but often cried
Copyright ©
Rhan Henry
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