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  • Michaela

Sonnet P

O that sweet lack, that relief in the cracks

Once worrying at what was there before

Now I sigh at this yield to my attack

And my vexing enemy can't be sore:

It does not live, dead long 'ere our meeting

(Still well-curséd chance making me a cuss)

Hath neither breath nor blood in it beating

Yet a dark nemesis to each of us

If careless we are, unlucky, hasty,

This trite and trifling issue laying siege

For a time, times, half a time--all basely--

Until, at last! 'tis removed from the breach.

What this foe, this irksome kernel of truth?

'Twas the popcorn casing stuck by my tooth.

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Young William was new to town He wore not the hardened frown Of regulars at the saloon He sauntered breezily through the doors Past outlaws, bandits, townsmen, whores, To wet his whistle at high noon

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