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The Thorn
slender, sleek, while burdens sleep,
is where he rests his weary head,
tender, weak, he cannot speak
for lips are not his virtue
the world it seems beleives he'll hurt you
his thrown, is beautys form
for he is but a thorn
his soveirgn slowly twisting
as he becomes whats slowly wilting
growing old with natures grace,
he knows hell find a better place
