O you things, you synaptic things
you harpies with your dexterous wings
You stunning thoughts of twisted springs
atoned for killings countless kings
And if you could consider then
the worse for where and worse for when
the justice of the fountain pen
wielded by sheep-footed men
Let us get lost, past the reaches
salt the sand of grammar beaches
say our words in saccharine speeches
Dust thou art to dusted leeches
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