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Peculiar Mess (Penkelemes)
Whatever song plays, they know the dance,
whatever love, they know the drill.
Mornings are same, so is the noon.
Love is the same, whenever in France.
Remedies to hate, lies in romance,
remedies to work, lies as skill.
Whatever night comes, its the same moon.
The pain today is an advance.
Words will elude those lost in a trance,
Words of a poet is the thrill.
Words of Revelation may end soon,
So the Pastor’s feet may find dance.
Whatever song plays, they know the dance,
whatever love, they know the drill.
Mornings are same, so is the noon.
Love is the same, whenever in France.
Ruddapoet Rudolph
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