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The heart, when put on the stand
The heart, when put on the stand, is peaked and bland.
Her proud feathers pulled as she digs the mites of sex,
Her colors dulled by her diet of tired worms,
Paper indulgences signed with blood feathers by my vainglorious ego
Ground into her feed to bloat her gullet.
Scaly claws spurred, she destroys herself in the ring for your lonely shadow.
