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Thursday, December 1, 2011

Serpent on the Mound

To be hopelessly lost in laughter
At last soul's capture factor
My brethren to behold the repentance
To commence hence forth for duty
In front of a jury in a hurry to fix
A noose in which to swing the change of wind
And choke out the fog for thrills

To be helplessly laughing at death
See, at best we've met our maker
His beard like my brother's arrogance
On a cloud aloud in a sky of screams
It seems things deem rather quick
A slit lets out a box of ills spilled upon the strange
And watch a dog choke on his pills

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