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15 The Whiskers 07/03/2010 Growing up seeing Scarred faces taking Kids to graves, rang no bell Of our homestead oil well, Her mine fields being scars Here on earth not Mars Like whiskers standing Straight and unbending Dug up for her dust All driven by lust; If hell wishes, greed That leaves mauls that bleed Broken virgin empty. Scoring mark? Hefty! If not bleed of mud Like this unblessed mud Some hand some to drink We revert with ink ...

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