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Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.
More in Dregs & Other Unreadables Poetry is a dead baby.Poetry is a dead baby.
lost before it's born Poetry is an autumn wind blowing gently through the corn. Poetry is dead, baby but the poets keep on living Poetry is a winter snow and the poets are there shiv'ring Poetry is a dead baby. alive in the hearts of its parents Poetry is a spring dawn waiting for time to make it apparent |
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