| O man! how you babble |
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cold fragile sounds that carry |
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through what was once my home. |
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| Is it an apology? so, |
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I will gnaw down the timbers of your house |
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and see if you feel an apology sufficient. |
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| I have no home |
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no home, do you understand that man? |
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Such as I have no time for frigid philosophy. |
| Carefully I laid it out |
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buried in the sheltered clods |
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safe from the icy spring winds; |
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| My mate and my young hid there |
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they huddled away from your iron tooth |
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only I ran -- how I wish I had not! |
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| I will make the unplanned pilgrime |
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Man, to your home and your cat |
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And if I can bring the beams down on your head |
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I won't be content |
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but it will be a start |