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The Season of Slumber
The dead bodies line the road 
 As I ride home one day, 
 I smell the death as the hung 
 Bodies fall from their birthplaces
 Their nooses break
 As the gallows fall asleep
 
 The smell reminds me of riding my 
 Bicycle down the old dirt road
 At my birthplace
 The yellow and red 
 Already dead 
 From the season of slumber arriving

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