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My language lingers thou my dear, done thee unjust although sincere. So fare enough I must confess, my inner struggle more or less, whilst poetry is not my thing. Afresh thou love within my words, albeit a well of twinge endures, I would not taunt and go along to jibber such in native tongue, since poetry is not my thing. Thou see’st my lacking so I guess that thy art incomplete alike, or art thou good a friend and thus believing firm applaud thy must. Though poetry is not my thing, my roerbak sells, thou art buying.
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