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Spoon the sauce over the ice cream. It will harden. This is what you have been working for.

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People Aren't Wearing Their Pretentions Anymore

One thing is certain.
And you will know this for sure!
Gone are those days,
When pretending to be someone's friend...
Has come to a halt!
That has finally come to an end!

People will be looking for evidence.
And just saying you have friends...
Is going to be more valued,
Than anything you 'thought' you owned.
The times we now live will reveal this!
And 'if' you have been working,
To maintain appearances?
Many will find those 'appearances' foreclosed!
Nothing they 'owned'
Can be shown!
Not so much from lack of payment...
But from an introduction to reality!
And 'this' many will find themselves lacking.
Since 'reality' for them produced no backing!
Few had kept track...
Of the importance of keeping,
Themselves attached to facts!

Now they run stunned,
From a truth that attacks!

A reality that crushes perceptions,
Of what is desired most!
Some will find a closeness is needed.
And deceptions will uncover...
Denials suffered and discovered.
With some in recovery,
Hopefully with others!

Someone is sought to be trusted,
These days.
And if you have rushed to purchase that trust...
Guess what?
You and what you have worked to achieve...
Is as useless as your fake smile!
That has been poisoned with this disease.
And 'that' is no longer the standard.
Or accepted like tantrums of a child!

Not in these times as folks are trying to find...
Something of substance that is far more reliable!
And a selective way of life and outlook,
Has become fruitless, unnourishing...
Outdated and passé!
Like judgements passed for quick trials!

People aren't wearing their pretentions anymore.
And you with your charades displayed,
May just find yourself...
Among those who are left,
Who are feeling not only guilt...
But a disgust that has been much betrayed!

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Wilhelm Busch

The Mole Part Two

Klabumm! - So krieg die Schwerenot! -
Der Nachbar schießt die Spatzen tot.

Klaboom! - Enough to lose one's head! -
The neighbour's shooting sparrows dead.


Doch immerhin und einerlei!
Ein Flintenschuß ist schnell vorbei.

But, anyhow and all the same!
The shooting's over. Knoll takes aim.

Schon wieder wühlt das Ungetier.
Wart! denkt sich Knoll. Jetzt kommen wir.

The monster's burrowing once more.
This is what Knoll's been waiting for.

Er schwingt die Hacke voller Hast -
Radatsch! - O schöner Birnenast!

Quite hastily he swings the hoe -
The pear tree's there to catch the blow.

Die Hacke ärgert ihn doch sehr,
Drum holt er jetzt den Spaten her.

The hoe's no good in times of need;
His trusty spade will do the deed.

Nun, Alter, sei gescheit und weise
Und mache leise, leise, leise!

Old boy, be silent, not a breath!
Let stealth and cunning be his death.


Schnarräng! - Da tönt ihm in das Ohr
Ein Bettelmusikantenchor.

Shnarrang! A din assaults his ear;
A band of street musicians 's here.

Musik wird oft nicht schön gefunden,
Weil sie stets mit Geräusch verbunden.

Music is always noise-related
And often not appreciated.

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By the Time You Have Been Effectively Silenced

By the time you have been effectively silenced...
You would have welcomed it yourself!
And thought of it a brilliant idea.
That should have happened sooner.
But at that time...
You had been opposed to suppression!

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If You Have Been Given The Opportunity

IF you have been given the opportunity,
To be invited to view a bigger picture of life...
That includes you,
But for some reason...
You are no longer tha main topic of it?
Grab a hold onto this opportunity.

You may discover a different world,
You had no idea existed.
And others like yourself,
Finding the useless need...
To adorn rose colored glasses.

Getting a much wider vision of life,
And how the experience of living it...
Can benefit with a more rewarding purpose,
That redefines your identity with clarity!
If...
You have been given that opportunity.

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The Only Way To Understand What We Have Been Talking About...

let me write about peace then.

the irony is that peace has no use of words,
like silence,

when you utter it, it is not there anymore.

let me paint peace then, ah, the very sound of the brush disturbs it,
the way we choose the color, creates an argument

let me have a camera and take a picture of peace,
disregard the click and the flash

just imagine it,

early dawn, a fisherman casts his net on a noiseless sea
all the fish have gone to the other side of the island.

the earlier you accept that you have been rightfully abandoned
the easier is it to understand what we have been talking about.

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You Have No Need For The Ones You Have

Continue to procrastinate.
Do nothing,
But waste your time!
Advice solicited given to you...
Has been excused,
While you choose to make up your mind.
Time after time...
After time each time!

Keep your steps reluctant.
Make decisions you say are with faith.
Remain stubborn not listening to others.
And hesitate,
Sitting while you wait!
In a selfish self debate,
You salivate...
Deliciously,
When speaking of your fate.

Those dreams you wish fulfilled with promise?
With hopes?
Came by to knock on your door!
But you were inside,
With doubts you did not stop!
And those knocks you heard,
You left ignored!
And away from you,
They've gone forevermore!

There was a delivery that came,
Especially for you.
But those 'gifts' disappeared.
When you made it clear and obvious...
You have no need for the ones you have.
And the ones you have you fear!

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Those Sweet Tarts You Seek

You received the wrong memo.
I am not the one handing out sweet tarts.

I know what you have been told,
With gossip to support your expectations.
But no...
I only deliver clarity unseasoned.

Those sweet tarts you seek,
Can be retrieved over there...
Where those deceiving in masks,
Are treating those standing patiently...
In that long line.

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An Encounter...

in that encounter
the day becomes a mirror
as i begin to see every part of you in me.
the same eyes
longing for the outside game
the same feet wanting to walk all the edges of this earth
you are asking questions
that need the answers to the same questions over and over again
i play this game too
and even though i am bored i make you feel that this is interesting
i talk to fill the missing words in your mouth
and you listen
hoping to find inside me what you have been looking for
it will take a long time for you to know that i am just
another sea breeze
kissing sands and stones.

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Mina

Look and see the sadness on my face!
But, whose laughter will be the next and the best?
Look! ! For your own eyes have seen this day and,
Your own body has tasted my love.

This was what i have been waiting for!
And, you are a true friend and a true lover;
But now, the day is over and i can see clearly now.

I am the king's son-in-law but,
Your negative act today had brought sadness on my face!
Nut, but, hut, cut, brut, rut, out, lout, clout, bout, about;
And like the City that has gates and bars.

Flout, rout, grout, gout, pout, tout, stout!
But, i have now found honour in your sight;
And, i am deeply moved towards your love.

Mina! !
There kerosene lamp is closer to you;
Lamp, camp, stamp, amp, ramp, cramp!
But, try to do what is best always in this life.

Tramp, clamp, damp, champ, vamp!
I have now seen it in your eyes;
But, this night has been defiled.

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I See That 'You' You Are

You may not need me,
Now.
Like you will.
Or,
Can say what you feel,
Now.
But somehow...
I know.

And that which I know...
No longer do I question,
Reasons why or how I do!

I know...
Your life lived is not a gift picked,
From a grab bag.
To exchange for something wished,
That is better than what you have.
And comparing your life...
Brings to you an unwanted sadness.
I know this.

I know...
You have been selected for a test.
And to pass it wont be easy.

I know...
Not too many can accept,
This gift that they get.
And they choose to disrespect it.
To leave it neglected.
Desperate is the grieving...
That becomes reflected.

And I know...
Those tempestuous storms,
One expects when clouds appear.
Come along to cleanse you,
From ills and evil.
Dispensed around you to endear!

When they come...
Do not hold them near.
Wish them away to disappear.

But you must cling onto faith without fail.
You can,
You must and will prevail!
To triumph and conquer,
Over your disturbing mental turbulence.

You may not need me,
Now.
Like you will.
Or,
Can say what you feel,
Now.
But somehow...
I know.

I know!
Because I see that 'you' you are...
In me!
And I am not about to go,
To leave you alone to suffer.
That...
I am not going to allow!
Like I did...
Before I saw the me in you.

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A pain of thorn

Oh, God I could feel the pain of thorn
I am at aghast to know how it could be worn.
The wounds all over and body completely torn
Was this the only thing when God father sent the baby to be born?

Anarchy, disbelief, injustice and torture prevailed
Fanatics ruled and religious practice curtailed
No safety for disciples and complete blockade
No hymns, no prayers and all congregations forbade

Was there any necessity for almighty to take birth on land?
Why did earth illuminate and bell rang on arrival with the bands?
Was it right signal for the mass to take a heave a sigh of relief?
Some divine soul was to take birth to strengthen their belief

How much we caused a pain and anguish?
We were hell bent upon for their life to be finished
We did not see kindness and love for mankind
On the contrary we ignored the teachings as blind

Thousands of years later still I feel the same pain of wound
I cry over each place when touch and find
Why cruel treatment was meted out when you were very kind?
Why all appeals felled on deaf ears and were rescinded?

Certainly they would have been most feared animals
Who would have definitely resented the divine spirit’s arrival?
Hell might have been let loose and terror unleashed
The earth might have turned red with lots of bloodshed

You bled all along but did not flee
You were for them an inspiration like big tree
You wanted to see whole world happy and free
Many still preferred to be blinded and refused to see

What have you left behind us as golden heritage?
Beautiful life to be lead happily in each stage
No room for complaints of any kind from true disciples
Simple ideals neatly woven and based on principles

Not a single word against wrong doers and torturers?
“God forbid them from doing it and turn into believers”
They are all human and forgive them for what they are doing
Spare them for completing their sins and prove later on something


I understand no logic behind
It is forget and forgive of natural kind
No one reacts to the bad things in bad way
This is what we have been taught to keep away

Tears drops from my eyes as I try to memorize
Endless sufferings perpetrated and organized
How could you endure such a pain smilingly?
Here we are not prepared even to share happiness willingly?

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Czeslaw Milosz

A Treatise On Poetry: IV Natura

Pennsylvania, 1948-1949

The garden of Nature opens.
The grass at the threshold is green.
And an almond tree begins to bloom.

Sunt mihi Dei Acherontis propitii!
Valeat numen triplex Jehovae!
Ignis, aeris, aquae, terrae spiritus,
Salvete!—says the entering guest.

Ariel lives in the palace of an apple tree,
But will not appear, vibrating like a wasp’s wing,
And Mephistopheles, disguised as an abbot
Of the Dominicans or the Franciscans,
Will not descend from a mulberry bush
Onto a pentagram drawn in the black loam of the path.


But a rhododendron walks among the rocks
Shod in leathery leaves and ringing a pink bell.
A hummingbird, a child’s top in the air,
Hovers in one spot, the beating heart of motion.
Impaled on the nail of a black thorn, a grasshopper
Leaks brown fluid from its twitching snout.
And what can he do, the phantom-in-chief,
As he’s been called, more than a magician,
The Socrates of snails, as he’s been called,
Musician of pears, arbiter of orioles, man?
In sculptures and canvases our individuality
Manages to survive. In Nature it perishes.
Let him accompany the coffin of the woodsman
Pushed from a cliff by a mountain demon,
The he-goat with its jutting curl of horn.
Let him visit the graveyard of the whalers
Who drove spears into the flesh of leviathan
And looked for the secret in guts and blubber.
The thrashing subsided, quieted to waves.
Let him unroll the textbooks of alchemists
Who almost found the cipher, thus the scepter.
Then passed away without hands, eyes, or elixir.


Here there is sun. And whoever, as a child,
Believed he could break the repeatable pattern
Of things, if only he understood the pattern,
Is cast down, rots in the skin of others,
Looks with wonder at the colors of the butterfly,
Inexpressible wonder, formless, hostile to art.


To keep the oars from squeaking in their locks,
He binds them with a handkerchief. The dark
Had rushed east from the Rocky Mountains
And settled in the forests of the continent:
Sky full of embers reflected in a cloud,
Flight of herons, trees above a marsh,
The dry stalks in water, livid, black. My boat
Divides the aerial utopias of the mosquitoes
Which rebuild their glowing castles instantly.
A water lily sinks, fizzing, under the boat’s bow.


Now it is night only. The water is ash-gray.
Play, music, but inaudibly! I wait an hour
In the silence, senses tuned to a beaver’s lodge.
Then suddenly, a crease in the water, a beast’s
black moon, rounded, ploughing up quickly
from the pond-dark, from the bubbling methanes.
I am not immaterial and never will be.
My scent in the air, my animal smell,
Spreads, rainbow-like, scares the beaver:
A sudden splat.
I remained where I was
In the high, soft coffer of the night’s velvet,
Mastering what had come to my senses:
How the four-toed paws worked, how the hair
Shook off water in the muddy tunnel.
It does not know time, hasn’t heard of death,
Is submitted to me because I know I’ll die.


I remember everything. That wedding in Basel,
A touch to the strings of a viola and fruit
In silver bowls. As was the custom in Savoy,
An overturned cup for three pairs of lips,
And the wine spilled. The flames of the candles
Wavery and frail in a breeze from the Rhine.
Her fingers, bones shining through the skin,
Felt out the hooks and clasps of the silk
And the dress opened like a nutshell,
Fell from the turned graininess of the belly.
A chain for the neck rustled without epoch,
In pits where the arms of various creeds
Mingle with bird cries and the red hair of caesars.


Perhaps this is only my own love speaking
Beyond the seventh river. Grit of subjectivity,
Obsession, bar the way to it.
Until a window shutter, dogs in the cold garden,
The whistle of a train, an owl in the firs
Are spared the distortions of memory.
And the grass says: how it was I don’t know.


Splash of a beaver in the American night.
The memory grows larger than my life.
A tin plate, dropped on the irregular red bricks
Of a floor, rattles tinnily forever.
Belinda of the big foot, Julia, Thaïs,
The tufts of their sex shadowed by ribbon.


Peace to the princesses under the tamarisks.
Desert winds beat against their painted eyelids.
Before the body was wrapped in bandelettes,
Before wheat fell asleep in the tomb,
Before stone fell silent, and there was only pity.


Yesterday a snake crossed the road at dusk.
Crushed by a tire, it writhed on the asphalt.
We are both the snake and the wheel.
There are two dimensions. Here is the unattainable
Truth of being, here, at the edge of lasting
and not lasting. Where the parallel lines intersect,
Time lifted above time by time.


Before the butterfly and its color, he, numb,
Formless, feels his fear, he, unattainable.
For what is a butterfly without Julia and Thaïs?
And what is Julia without a butterfly’s down
In her eyes, her hair, the smooth grain of her belly?
The kingdom, you say. We do not belong to it,
And still, in the same instant, we belong.
For how long will a nonsensical Poland
Where poets write of their emotions as if
They had a contract of limited liability
Suffice? I want not poetry, but a new diction,
Because only it might allow us to express
A new tenderness and save us from a law
That is not our law, from necessity
Which is not ours, even if we take its name.


From broken armor, from eyes stricken
By the command of time and taken back
Into the jurisdiction of mold and fermentation,
We draw our hope. Yes, to gather in an image
The furriness of the beaver, the smell of rushes,
And the wrinkles of a hand holding a pitcher
From which wine trickles. Why cry out
That a sense of history destroys our substance
If it, precisely, is offered to our powers,
A muse of our gray-haired father, Herodotus,
As our arm and our instrument, though
It is not easy to use it, to strengthen it
So that, like a plumb with a pure gold center,
It will serve again to rescue human beings.


With such reflections I pushed a rowboat,
In the middle of the continent, through tangled stalks,
In my mind an image of the waves of two oceans
And the slow rocking of a guard-ship’s lantern.
Aware that at this moment I—and not only I—
Keep, as in a seed, the unnamed future.
And then a rhythmic appeal composed itself,
Alien to the moth with its whirring of silk:


O City, O Society, O Capital,
We have seen your steaming entrails.
You will no longer be what you have been.
Your songs no longer gratify our hearts.


Steel, cement, lime, law, ordinance,
We have worshipped you too long,
You were for us a goal and a defense,
Ours was your glory and your shame.


And where was the covenant broken?
Was it in the fires of war, the incandescent sky?
Or at twilight, as the towers fly past, when one looked
From the train across a desert of tracks

To a window out past the maneuvering locomotives
Where a girl examines her narrow, moody face
In a mirror and ties a ribbon to her hair
Pierced by the sparks of curling papers?


Those walls of yours are shadows of walls,
And your light disappeared forever.
Not the world's monument anymore, an oeuvre of your own
Stands beneath the sun in an altered space.


From stucco and mirrors, glass and paintings,
Tearing aside curtains of silver and cotton,
Comes man, naked and mortal,
Ready for truth, for speech, for wings.


Lament, Republic! Fall to your knees!
The loudspeaker’s spell is discontinued.
Listen! You can hear the clocks ticking.
Your death approaches by his hand.


An oar over my shoulder, I walked from the woods.
A porcupine scolded from the fork of a tree,
A horned owl, not changed by the century,
Not changed by place or time, looked down.
Bubo maximus, from the work of Linnaeus.


America for me has the pelt of a raccoon,
Its eyes are a raccoon’s black binoculars.
A chipmunk flickers in a litter of dry bark
Where ivy and vines tangle in the red soil
At the roots of an arcade of tulip trees.
America’s wings are the color of a cardinal,
Its beak is half-open and a mockingbird trills
From a leafy bush in the sweat-bath of the air.
Its line is the wavy body of a water moccasin
Crossing a river with a grass-like motion,
A rattlesnake, a rubble of dots and speckles,
Coiling under the bloom of a yucca plant.


America is for me the illustrated version
Of childhood tales about the heart of tanglewood,
Told in the evening to the spinning wheel’s hum.
And a violin, shivvying up a square dance,
Plays the fiddles of Lithuania or Flanders.
My dancing partner’s name is Birute Swenson.
She married a Swede, but was born in Kaunas.
Then from the night window a moth flies in
As big as the joined palms of the hands,
With a hue like the transparency of emeralds.


Why not establish a home in the neon heat
Of Nature? Is it not enough, the labor of autumn,
Of winter and spring and withering summer?
You will hear not one word spoken of the court
of Sigismund Augustus on the banks of the Delaware River.
The Dismissal of the Greek Envoys is not needed.
Herodotus will repose on his shelf, uncut.
And the rose only, a sexual symbol,
Symbol of love and superterrestrial beauty,
Will open a chasm deeper than your knowledge.
About it we find a song in a dream:


Inside the rose
Are houses of gold,
black isobars, streams of cold.
Dawn touches her finger to the edge of the Alps
And evening streams down to the bays of the sea.


If anyone dies inside the rose,
They carry him down the purple-red road
In a procession of clocks all wrapped in folds.
They light up the petals of grottoes with torches.
They bury him there where color begins,
At the source of the sighing,
Inside the rose.


Let names of months mean only what they mean.
Let the Aurora’s cannons be heard in none
Of them, or the tread of young rebels marching.
We might, at best, keep some kind of souvenir,
Preserved like a fan in a garret. Why not
Sit down at a rough country table and compose
An ode in the old manner, as in the old times
Chasing a beetle with the nib of our pen?

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Concealed

inside the clam is concealed
flesh
it is where the pearl is,
in the same manner
inside the skin is the pulp
it is where
sweetness lies, the ripeness
of the fruit,
and one licks it
and savors the juicy portion
of what nature willingly gives
without even
knowing your name,

inside my heart lies
what you have been looking for
i am ripe
and luscious
my pearl shines to the
hunger of your
gaze
my flesh drips to the
enticement of your thirst

come then and be with me
tonight
when the moon does not mind
what love can do
to love

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Yes Oh Yes

I know a woman who can hardly speak.
The feeling is so strong, and the foreman becomes weak.
It took one sentence to finish in a week.
I said "Yes, oh yes."
I said "This is what I've been waiting for."
I know a place where nothing can grow.
The summer will burn and the winter will snow.
And nothing moves but the wind, it blows.
It says "Yes, oh yes."
It says "This is what you've been homesick for."
I want to learn all the languages of man.
And question the wisdom in the maker's plan.
To babble on in our caravan
Where we say, "Yes, oh yes."
We said, "This is why we're not fighting. Oh."
You take me by my hand and say,
That what I owe I can not repay,
But you still love me anyway.
And I said "Yes, oh yes."
I said "This is what I've been dying...Yes, oh yes!
This is what I've been crying for. Yes, oh yes.
This is what I've been waiting for.

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Not My Time To Go

lord don't take me away, there are so many things
that i must do and say.
there are so many hearts i've yet to touch
so many dreams that i must go through
before i am able to join you.

they say that life consists of a million steps.
well! i have'nt gotten ther yet.
i still have a ways to climb, before i reach that final step.
where i can finally see, the goals that you have set for me.
the dream i had of touching so many hearts and souls.
i've yet to reach that goal.

lord! this is not my time to go.
i know that i've been moving very slow.
but some things take longer than others.
as you very well know, you took six days
until there was perfection.
so i ask you from the bottom of my heart
to give me another start.so that i can touch the
minds i've missed, and let them feel your heavenly bliss.

give me the insight so that i may see
just what you have in store for me.
if i am here to write your word
then help me so that it can be heard.
let your voice reach the highest peak
so that people will start to seek
the words that you have given to me.
so that their hearts could be set free.
this is all i ask of thee.
but in order for me to do this
it is not my time to go.
so i hope that you'll move slow.

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The Ice Cream Man

He roams around schools with his rocky bicycle
And he rings the bell but nobody turns,
The whole World seems to be angry with him.
Swine Flu brings the catastrophe to his small business
And his tears mix with the melting ice cream.
Ice cream Man is nowhere and the rumor goes around
The Flu has taken him to a kind World.

*[ eyes green as leaves
yet, closed now, like a flower
the life gone from them.]
-Katerina Papadopoulos-

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The Ice-Cream

Lollipops connect to make new creams,
I have certainty that the path may beckon,
And life sorts out the trails and tracks
Of my former life.

Ice cream resides in the head, often enough
Apt and deliberately the show has responded;
My living created a bear of the other hidden factors
Much progressed and as of now.

Why does it sit and spin new agenda?
In his claws we see erect a barrier of the language
One sings to the time of prophetic understanding,
They are men of learning and wisdom as well.

I possess the gifts one swallows for the ends of the relics,
Meanings are simply pitiful when highlighted,
As the meaning of the living has a square
After the name of the family.

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Ice Cream

to be with each other
closer than before

we take turns licking
the ice cream
on the cone, then,

after the taste of vanilla
we savor what sweetness
is still left
in each other's tongue.

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Hot Chocolate And Ice-Cream

My positive book says I’m free
and empowered, decided to test
their theory by ordering hot chocolate
and ice-cream, dipping the ice-cream
in the hot chocolate mixture – now the
cold doesn’t hurt my teeth; the liquid
is cooling down rapidly

Definitely makes me feel empowered,
free to create anything – though restaurant
food taste of rubber and plastic, I’m free not
to eat it – when hunger makes eating inevitable,
I simply fill up on ice-cream and chocolate;
I agree with their theory: I am
an empowered being!

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Razel the ice-witch song

Yes, I'm Razel the ice-witch, am evil and I'm ice blue,
Yes, I'm Razel the ice-witch, am evil and I can freeze you,
With my ice-device into an ice-cube!
I can freeze everything day or night!
I'm Razel the ice-witch and I'm sharp as ice!
I'm Razel the ice-witch, I'm evil and I'm bad,
I am Razel the ice-witch, I'm evil and I'm glad!
Because I can control your feelings thoughts and deeds,
Because I'm filled with spite and greed!
Yes, I'm Razel the ice-witch and I can freeze you just like that!
Yes, I can freeze you just like that! !
Uh, huh, huh, huh!

Written by Suzaria Star on June 3,1999
www.razelpuppet.com www.razel.us
www.suzaria.com

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