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Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Fall of '67 (a Quadrille)

It’s o-dark-thirty, I’m flying,
death surely on its way,
I see my mother,
dead nine years.
I am no longer matter.
Go back, you can’t stay,
still work for you,
important matters. 
Easy now to understand, 
the work is peace,
all that really matters.

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