Upon The Wilted Daisies

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For times will pass, like growing grass
Upon the wilted daises
But when they turn to dust and ash
Shall I return singing songs of the aeries?

Nay, I say, I beg you please
For I am not the bravest lady
Between the oak, the willow same
The madams are simply mangy

But I do say, if I should say so myself
That frill is not a measure
Of where that lady’s heart does yearn
Or the places it may leisure

Men are nothing but one now
Rareness lost at bay
For if you cannot see the light
Then throw your eyes away





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