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Fuel

Rating: 2.8

What of the silence of the keys
And silvery hands? The iron sings…
Though bows lie broken on the strings,
The fly-wheels turn eternally…

Bring fuel - drive the fires high…
Throw all this artist-lumber in
And foolish dreams of making things…
(Ten million men are called to die.)

As for the common men apart,
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7/19/2021 7:01:29 PM # 1.0.0.663