She tied her black and white oxfords tightly to ground herself to terra, this old grey crow was about to upset a nest. Arms stretched from nine to three she hid one key
Practiced pirouette the green eye to the left
instead of coal
light does reveal
three golden orbs shine through
the woman in the light brown box in red
at half past three
displayed the other key
Death slithered into the space between, a drop of water still grasped her brow, the smell of machine was an easy tel. A centurion stood to hold the way, behind him a crowd of lost souls a stray. Deaths nose did stir the scent was strong, at the Well of the Souls.
Be still and listen
One day I will tell you a story
Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
I recall those days of old
when we burned the man
and danced the can can
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