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I have got snakes

In my soul you deserve

Only aversion

And spittle to your faces the trees can

Be recognized just by its fruit

When it affects

And becomes visible

Forgiveness of offence

Perpetual thraldom it is lie

The wet face

The fortitude to the tenderness

Unfortunately

It has to be spoken

Stench of the century

There is a pitiable grae

Deserted in the loneliness

The great end is much better

Than endless greatness