Our deaf and dumb pilot,
Whose path-finding guts we haven’t got,
Took us to the sinister spot,
Where would be found a fearsome pot
And the littlest cot,
With baby spirits like a big dot,
Still seeming through and through a zygote,
Some on the cot happily choosing to squat,
A handful with their eyes chasing a far-off yacht
And the rest riotously dead,...
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