Glove - Gord - Aspoet
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Gord

2020-07-28 05:21 am
Noble steed, noble land,
From ovum to the fields.
One dances, never glances,
Until glasses conceal.
Test taker, what is fate?
My eyes no longer make it.

Stare into the distance,
And see the same.
Tomorrow is a little late.

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