taxes
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Wikipedia Poem, No. 125
You say puff pastry you say tax credit is a bulldog by now she’s probably lost in traffic skin darker than guns my father’s obsessed it will be hungry that guy who makes hot sauce climbs up my forefinger and into whatever the girls’ mortal wound — And I’m all like, bent, reaching raise…
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Untitled Potion, 040520152117
You are given one potion At the beginning of every clash Another, you choose In peacetime, & pay for With an excise stamp of flesh.
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