A squadron of indexes
Has come to forcibly file my dilemmas,
Put me away like at the end of a book,

I can hear the steady sure buzz fill the air,

The making of coffins
And birthday cakes,

I swear by calamity,
By the sudden appetite for fire, the perfect smirk
Of winter moon, it is by folly alone we love,

Sometimes it’s better to put too much blue in the bathwater

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