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and they twirl it,
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And they sweat it, and they tattooed the floor like mad!
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What about a poem?
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- Yes. Please, Mr. Keats. - A short one.
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When I have fears that I may cease to be
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before my pen has glean d my teeming brain
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before high- piled books, in character
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hold like rich garners the full- ripen d grain
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when I behold, upon the nights starred face
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huge cloudy symbols of a high romance
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I do apologize. I've gone blank.
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You're tired.