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Ode To Cold

Oh ye metamorphic foe,
Whence nostrils flow;
Then forth the haze descends,
To where the breath depends;

Next the drip doth start,
From nasals doth depart;
Oh so little drip is cast,
Yet chokes and gags, great to gasp;

Only after much prolong,
Is any hope that it be gone;
Only once it congeals,
Be relief from how it feels.
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4/17/2021 3:59:39 AM # 1.0.0.559