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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.

-=Dark_Angel=-, P.I. 29-Jul-05/2:20 AM
Even the finest Persian carpets must have at least one blemmish, lest they affect a perfection that touches the buttocks of God. And so it is with poetry, the obvious exception being 'The Spaz' by ?-Dave_Mysterious-?




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