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.Asp.

Warmth floods in and I start to seize
Muscle-quakes and tremors cease
My eyelids shoot about, trapeze
For a second I don’t even pant.

For this, made from the strangest trees
Can take away the hours to please
My deepest, dark infirmities
And all this from a plant.

But then returns that well-known gasp
The crack of voice and crooked rasp
An oily, black, malignant asp
My throat, a coat of ants.

I’ve tried to stop, but try and see
How you live with this disease
When your lungs and brain agree
There’s no such thing as “can’t”.



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