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Weepers

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In the stillness of my solitude, echoes rain down on my library of buttons and tomes, as I dictate to a stenographer with ectoplasm charms, in stiletto shoes. Punching my ticket on the river Styx and I swimming in a tankard of rye, with a Will-o'-the-wisp. As the red tail fly kissed my lips.

As whispering hover over my sleeping shadow. Laying me down to sleep as weepers creep. Weepers of old poets who now rest with ghosts. In shallow moats where where I pick my poetic bones. Swimming with fish in a tankard of rye. 

Now scribbling with ink of weeper's tears, of harlots and their kumbaya, as they dance to my sleeping shadow. Before the Sandman washes away my dreams and the Tooth Fairy puts cataracts over my eye-teeth. Now swimming with fish in a tankard of rye with Sugar Crisp on standby. 

 

 


   

 

 

 

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