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The Gene That Never Died

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Quoth man,
I know not needs of thine,
Lest they furnish needs of mine;
My table calleth none to dine,
Save he who bringeth forth some wine.

 

Says man,
I come with grace of dove,
That in your bowl, my beak may shove;
Men bow at altars, not for love
But for a share in heav'n above.

 

Never will one lend a hand
To those who lack a hand to lend-
Thus always was and always is and
Always will be till the end.






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