Tho' long turned to dust & from no lust for gold
Sparta, thy maidens must spare not the old
Exulting in trinkets & their Goddess grey-eyed
To whom War too is a baby; Grace, genocide.
Envoi-
Prince! What's funny is not that Pity grants me money, but that Harvest Dawn gleans me wit
In Poetry's stables to shovel, Tyrtaeus, thy but Trojan horse's shit.
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