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Oct 2010
One night my love and I were out observing the constellations
When from nowhere we hear to our consternation
Incessant notes of outrageous declaration.
My love and I upon closer clandestine inspection
Observe a drunken troubadour torturing such inflection
As to sour the deafest of men upon hearing such disconnection.
As we run hand in hand unaware of our direction,
Pelting objects sound crushing the object of our disaffection.
For Can you spare a word or 5?
Troubadour.  Sour.  Incessant.  Crushing.  Constellation.
Judy Ponceby
Written by
Judy Ponceby  Ohio, USA
(Ohio, USA)   
     Kamille Elizabeth and Judy Ponceby
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