the English would kill and be killed everywhere—Simon Schama
so they arched a devilling lever of the back death
the free dead affronting grudgement
on the awning of the wealth of June
on the feels of a black heath
the bridges powdered with shots
awls evenly at her percy this was not a gabble no
gabble gathered here to shake a point
states elonging to taxed electors whose
minorial recounts were grown on the wire
they who knew they were brewing paradox sickly
of the risen were woken open
malices put to the scorch
decapitated on the same lock one after the smother
captured at his airs in the hacked spun it on a spike
through the retreats on the heaving of thirteen Junes
what he saw has woken him in error
a sky dead with aims rumbling in ruin
it was a toy the span of the terror
way front, the spoiled party leagues gold cloth on the east tiles
oiled and down fall iterate spines in the little horse
.
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