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Tis fair and true, that I speak no lie, of lunar beauty ye must descend. To hear the obvious, be the pains of the beautiful, to hear the obvious be the pains of all mankind. While most often a candle, or a rose, I offer thee Cannon, Stock and Shell. To Battle I go, and in battle I find my lust, upon the craving of my Blades, and the sound of my Guns. A shipwrecks cause am I, but with sires blessing, tis blessing of Moon, may I now far well, in battles to come. Let us play, and muse in garden most dear; for as night falls, we now set Mast, and bring compass to ease upon our shores. With us, there is no right, only the writ of blood, callow and unrelenting. To pass blessing on my guns, full of fury and avarice, grace and importance, would be a kind gesture, make no mistake at that. But tis a fools folly to believe; a man of war I am not. Only of Pen and gesture do I speak, to tempt you, fair maiden, to enter my Garden. Be Warned. Here, there be widows.
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Submitted on
October 1, 2012
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