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London Calling (Free verse) by Bluemonkey

Waste and want walk hand in hand through the dirty streets of London. This daily bread is growning stale; moldy and left to decompose. Cradles turned to coffins in a twisted game of evolution. The sickening smell of cinnamon rising from the baker's grave. The first to aid, the last to fall; saddened in summer's peak. These bearded attempts to fan the flame of a sour fire indeed.

Dovina 7-Jul-05/2:40 PM
Good except for "twisted game of evolution."




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