Are we to speak, first day of the week Stumbling words at the bar Beauty blue eyes, my order of fries Long island kindness and wine Beloved of John, I get it all wrong I read you for some kind of poem Covered in lines, the fossils I find Have they no life of their own? So can we pretend sweetly Before the mystery ends? I am a man with a heart that offends With its lonely and greedy demands There's only a shadow of me; in a manner of speaking I'm dead
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