“Your amiability is sworn,” said the puling temptress,And I had forgotten, the meaning of death. I pulled a message, from her hand,And read it, forthwith,It read so neatly, in my hand,Words of long-etched, verse,Bleeding, with a hue, akin, to the ink color. “Next to nothing, that you are,A devilish crude vessel, of a man,Made for

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