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Her bee's got an itch,

Her  dad's got a car.

Her old man is mad,

She's taken it too far.

Faces are statues, they can't hear the ghosts.

That would sadden their hearts, that would close up their throats.

Here she is,

Within this very room.

Busy as ever, the world she consumes.

Walk in the way of the light, the pull of the moon is absent tonight.

Wasting the time of the senses all five,

Just down the way of the cry of the fight.

Created: Jan 01, 2012


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