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How did
they rhyme those men of yore
That few who despised the club
Sat and mused yearning for more
And suffered every wild man’s snub?
There’s
the pull of art that defines our kind
Some preserved on the walls of a cave
Prompted undoubtedly to present his mind
What he would fervently save!
Thoughts
inscribed on slabs of stone
Pictures of the drama of life
But no trace at all of tears to atone
Nor love and hate that was rife! |
