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lcarreau - Jun 16, 2013 11:28 pm - Hasn't voted
Clock strikes... twelve and moon-drops burst ..
Out at you from their hiding place.
Like acid and oil on a madman's face,
His reason tends to fly away ...
Like lesser birds on the four winds,
Like silver scrapes in May;
And now the sand's become a crust,
Most of you have gone away ..."
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