To A Miss

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I, dancing in my own bitter disgrace,
Washed and hung out and my mind unaligned,
And with my memory I did erase.

Unable to maintain a fitful pace,
Body and soul so utterly resigned,
I, dancing in my own disgrace.

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Nine to Five

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So poor is the man in his pointless toil,

For by standard virtuous he must be,

Never reaping the rewards from the soil,

In the darkness of this world’s horrid fee.

And should he be so inclined to wander,

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Night Talks

Let me picture silence,

By the pale moonlight.

Kissed by the breeze,

And serenaded by roos.

Dancing to the melody

Of dried and discarded leaves,

As the Queen moves to tire,

And her followers take heed.

And down in the pit,

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