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What in hell do they think they're doing
They're playing with fire
Black hair trailing
Lips clamped shut
That's the end of it
spring will fade, aghast, into the leaves of grass
and all loveliness will die away!
(it's all too pale too dark too blank)
The light red of cheeks, the eyes of brown
That's the end of it
(oh this bitterness this blueness this cold)
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