The Mitts

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Mitts twist round, and round and round,
With limits reached, do crack waxed bone,
Twist flesh and tendons tear,

Round and round and round they go,
Make cocks crow, eventide come,
And ne'er do cease,

Assay do men; and try do they
Negate the mitts,

And though in broken pieces lie,
The mitts twist round, and round,
And round





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