Those Men...
They've found a way to make rotten fruit look good,
They've found a way to make the dead come alive.
Those men that live in those tall black towers
Have found a way to mine the skies.
They drown little children in shallow pools
And hold maidens close by hooking
Their fingers into the crooks of their dimpled elbows.
Their breaths reek of forfeited beatitude.
They have given up their youth,
For the rest of their life.
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