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90 URCHIN Mosquitoes’ mutiny A song so tiny Like a new born child With no dour print of chide But admiration Causing no motion Though it trekked, no groped Through the uric road Prickling throats for a toast As parents of the dolt boast, Till in action, his sting Clutches them to spring With cacophonic sighs For noosing heads in melodious sound; Blinked. From their thighs, To his knees fell on the ground…. ...

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