Your Berries Are Diseased
What do you want with your berries?
Worship is a disease of logic only,
But so many have played on this service,
Strawberries are like red flowers
That burden the roses of their bloom,
Gloomy breath is taken by the exercise
Gloom has read the ends of the mirror,
Opening the pages of plants in botany.
What are the berries of worth?
Warships behave like torpedoes and
They exist after the peace of the garden
That gloomily bewares of the dealings
Of the hand left by the hands.
My sleep is my taking with flowers
And so many trees of oak,
The old regimes are again in war.
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