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they speak with forked tongue
cleft of lip
a jump to the right
on a slow sinking ship
it sounds like drunkeness
but is far, far worse,
a snake would be envious
of the hiss of this curse
honey rots
before hitting the floor
no more sweetness is left anymore
bitter tastes on the children’s tongue
but the swines puke on
their bile not yet fully sung
they dance on the graves
of those gone before
they stagger to the trip
it’s the dance of the whore

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