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(a ” Piece of Eight ”  poem)

The bottle dry? Cry! Wail to wind
to see what might light souls again.
Your banshee shriek with a death call,
commanding me? – a man’s dead fall.
Your dilemma sees  loathsome hope
to waste away, decree taut rope,
and about your throat harshly blows
the wind to emptied bone gallows.

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