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Their muse is there to always lament no-gory day?
If not their dirty lovely date, then tis about lust to prevail.
Their veins are always agile on the plane of gray;
They, demonic breaths, breeding perverted bartenders in veil.

The day knows their port and plots than the night,
But more spirited night loans their dark pitfalls.
They are not young but younger than their plight,
Don’t walk their way, you can completely fell.

They never wish you besides the wish they fake,
Their poisonous wings wouldn’t wane for love awhile.
They are lost in the vainglory, of time’s hot-cake,
For all we pray is these acrid minds to rethink awhile.

Dirty clouds, they are… and open grounds for who they are.
Be them chance, meet them pen, meet them speak;
They are always everywhere “giraffe-ing” the star,
Caring less that night would day and their mystery would leak.
For all we care, in it we pray, that D-day should reveal who-prey.

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