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Born On A Tree

Your pleasure,
to deprive him of his liberty,
is counter to your silent pride
over your spasmodic laughs
when you talk of,
invented tastes
to sip the yolk,
and crunch of eggshells
why to give
savage wolf his taste
by irony to favour
and disgrace to nest
with audible whiff
of his spread wings
sharp breeze tickled
with sparkling wines
as he learned from the sea
also his vanity
to find his savory,
and you shed light
in case you stunt his growth
on forbidden aroma
of the soul

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