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70 Do you come through putrid paths paved with gold but bearing thorns? Are you this bundle of joy, Comfort on the breasts of this woman, once barren? Money, who, what indeed are you? The Trail The sweat of fathers and mothers Past and present Lodged in overseas havens By any means thinkable It would scream, if it could talk Being made a roller-coaster Like the clamour of they Who expect their money Back, Any day, anyhow, after all By any Western means ...

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