Potatoes and Joe-Joe the dove on the spit. On the
The tar. In the jar is a tablet they sent in the post,
With a pamphlet. With an order; \"Take this when the
Pain gets too much!\" I confess I feel nothing at all . . .
Called me the snail. My red trail runs behind me.
I'm guilty, no secrets. You're not such a picture
Yourself--but your brown eyes I know so very well.
Through it all. Now our time's slowly ticking away.
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