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Strange Times

 

Strange times we are living 

Strange that far tidings 

Bear little meaning. 

When writers write to please 

Poets fail to recognise muses

Painters check pockets

Before portraits are made

Singers sing the agreeable 

Parents teach offsprings 

Their best servility. 

Times, indeed, are strange 

Thoughts, words, beauty, muses 

Dreams, courage and morality 

All should be locked up

And stowed in a dungeon 

Lest they see the light 

Lest they begin to sprout.




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