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too wordy a poem
I am sympathetic, although I hold no regrets,
Because although destruction is not my purpose,
‘Tis the consequence of my functions.
Would I not hold what others possess in my hands?
In my clutches, gripped tightly, lest my brew be poignant to taste?
A bitter expletive, fearfully brought out against thy will,
To astound turmoil from a froth that had so passionately
Remained on my lip for a slight moment too long,
Should this not be called hell?
As a pair, not all masks misguide,
To look at Twain later compared to Clemens, are they not similar?
Are their contrasts and shadows not a tad too analogous for their own good?
Of course, for that is their nature.
Only an extreme discourse that ends in turgid arguments
Would be acceptable. I would follow that path incorrectly,
And I did not.
So only an icicle remains of the past winter enjoyments,
Dripping away in tears of remainder and reminder,
The duet that danced the night away everlasting.
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Ruthless comments encouraged!
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