Sara Sophia Marker
	the garden in my tavern the garden is my tavern, so just a whiff of your bombay was enough for my whims when by the drone of morning i did stretch and recieve your denial, yawning you had promised a quilt by the end of seven months then only felt your spit like a flashflood and wept willfully of the fringe of the two of you now with forest as prayer, spited i have sought lovers and with the weight of the green tambourine have gathered these fruits with strain

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