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Sasha Raven Feb 2
"Have You ever noticed, that in the words a poem - Poe(m), a poet - Poe(t), poetry - Poe(try), a poetess - Poe(tess) is hidden the last name of the mighty poet and writer Edgar Allan Poe? So, He has to be the greatest master of poetry?" - ©Copyright: Sasha Raven
Wk kortas Mar 2018
Know this—I am well acquainted with the wolf,
Well versed in his ways, his demeanor,
His dispassionate relentlessness,
His pitiless focus on hunt and hunted,
His workaday disdain of pity.
There are those who would laud the mythical Spartan lad
Who hid the wolf beneath his cloak,
Affecting some gallant stoicism
As the beast consumed him without restraint,
But I say to you that is a mere romantic fallacy,
A wanton failure to apprehend the true moral.
I have learned that there is no accommodation,
No covenant to be reached with the wolf,
And any attempt to do so is merely to invite destruction,
And so I choose to engage him openly, without reservation,
Rolling tail-over-teacup in the streets,
Attempting to hold his jaws open with bare hands
While those who find such battle unseemly and uncouth
Jeer and hoot from porch and portico.
No matter, for I will continue to meet the cur on my terms,
For staid suffering in the hopes
Of reaching some accord with the beast
Is the not the act of the noble sage:
It is the mock heroics of the coward,
The sad acquiescence of the simpering fool.
Poetical Sep 2018
.
that Mr.Keats (we'll call him John) that John
was born on Hall(boo!)oween is handsome rich;
(poet of autumn dying young & so/on)

that John (or Mr.Keats to you,thou witch)
(good Christ!the chilly fallishness;the keen
& fitful gusts—the gustiest of gusts—
whispering here & there & in between
the softest,smoothest,whitest,ripest busts
'neath bowers a-bloom) was born on Hall(BOO!)oween
makes zombie Edgar Allen Poe(with rot
-ten faceflesh)hella jealous(smokin ***
is funnern huntin chupacabras ill)

that Mr.Keats (or John to you,thou *****)
was born on Hall(BOO!)oween is overkill
My modernday Morgan Le Fay
used to make love on graves,
now she sleeps all day.
She's a zomballerina in a zombikini.
masking her feelings with mirtazapini.
Dr.Fangoria prescribe the Torah!
Dr. Creepshow prescribe the Gospel!
O baby, do you still believe in All Hallow's Eve?

My costume's got no bonce on,
but I ain't Anne Boleyn.
Chub roll stump for a neck,
how do I sing?
Hole in my head
too whole to scream
'Verminend' to vulture teens,
smells like trick or treat.

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.

Sabrina the teenage selfharmer
went to the witch doctors of big pharma.
Me, I swear by traditional eye of newt
- dontcha know Old Cloots is in cahoots with Boots?
Sepulchral ***,
Edgar Allan ***** on your meds.
But baby do you still believe
in All Hallow's Eve?

My costume's got no bonce on,
but I ain't met Madam Guillotine
for a ****** valentine,
1789.
Play chicken with depression,
you might lose your head
on swingers' ouija weekend
with the Livinghyphendeads.

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.
Micheal Wolf Feb 2014
I sat chatting to Alison of what I can't recall.
Why she was here I had no idea at all.
Ian laughed and made a reference to Cruella De Ville, a pet name for my ex that makes him giggle still.

Then she entered, seemingly frantic, papers dropped floating like feathers. Her hair trailed as though chasing to catch her as she raced through the world.
But no man could catch her as there was no race she was not even there but visiting the same.

She spoke loudly, her words echoed of Edgar Allen Poe. Deep and mysterious, soft in reference to my very thoughts.
She seemed familiar, yet not, oh how could that be?
Real and not there, I thought I had met her.
But probably not yet?

She opened a book and said listen to me she spoke so softley I just agreed.
I can't remember a word that she said only Alisons laughter and Ians nodding head.
They sat next to us but faded away I was losing reality but needed to stay!

The librarian rebuked them and I turned away, then I realised it was Caroline who was sat at the desk.
She turned and smiled and started to say
Hi I'm....
Before she could speak I said "Caroline"
I know
She smiled and leaned towards me, then I woke
The dream blown to infinity.
The library gone.
Utter nonsense dream where I knew some people not others and made no sense. Vivid as day in every detail haunts me at night.
Richard Grahn Apr 2017
This is a pure “stream of conscience” poem. There is actually a story here despite the fact that none was intended.

“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Edgar Allan Poe

Lost in a chasm of broken dreams
Can I measure the depth with my inky quill?
Is there another place in the realm?
Do you remember where I put my head?

Where in the world did my orb get placed?
How can I get it back and reply?
Little issues pass by
There’s something to say
Catching my breath is the chance that I take

Traded for a note, I spy with my eyes
Clashing in the path of a desert wind
Rasping in the hash of a convincing beat
Born of a lion I cannot defeat

My feet walk the trail and I scratch at my head
Oh there you are, my trusted friend
It’s good to have you back again
Of that I am sure and you can depend

I’m set on the path that I trod with intent
Never was better a moment spent.
I’m lost in the magic of this well worn dream
A casual glance is all that I need

Well, that and my head.
‘Twas many moons ago in fled days of yore,
In a distant realm of a golden shore,
When there dwelt a maiden of golden hair,
The last fairest by the name of Lenore.

The sweetness of her mellifluous voice,
Like only Angels of high heaven can make;
The beaminess of her impeccable face,
Reflections of a dawn sun-kissed lake.

Once by a golden noontide, so they say,
Perfectly salubrious was the day,
Fairly enriched by heaven's fairest ray
That Lenore chose to potter by the bay.

She marveled at so wide a limpid sea,
That was a vast luminous blue millpond,
Whispering mellifluous lullabies
Like of Angels upon heaven's compound.

“O sea, thou art lovely like a sweet dream,”
Quoth Lenore, “In thy waters I must swim.”
Hence as quick as a plummeting sunbeam,
In waters jumped the little seraphim.

Frosted in sheer elation she galloped
Upon the crest of so gentle a wave,
But every sea creature lifted its head,
Whilst doleful as marigold by a grave,

And in faint whispers didst bid her adieu,
"Farewell Lenore," till she was out of view,
Away where mortals of yore never knew,
Away where none canst ever have a clue.

In a while, the sun had shone her last ray
And solitary stars were beaming bright
Upon heaven's timelessly stonking bay,
But she still alone In the dead of night.

By luck, on yonder was a galleon
Of a sundeck decked with bright neon,
Her glossy sails as if from diamond hewn,
With words golden blazoned upon her stern:

Come thou little maiden, come thou aboard,
But little did innocent Lenore know,
At the back words in clear ruby-red read:
“To the kingdom of eternal sorrow.”

Not so long faded the night, dawn was nigh,
Heaven's molten gold began oozing by,
Whilst silvery clouds waltzed athwart the sky,
That Lenore's eyes slavered with ecstasy.

But then, there came a dog in the manger,
A hateful wave assailed the galleon
And heavens raged with roaring thunder
That echoed louder than the hungriest lion.

Tossing her where the sea kisses the skies,
Hence now but a speck on the horizons,
And there she galloped by and by downwards
Till wrecked upon shadowy blue islands

That bore words by the shores: “Little maiden,
Welcome thou to the kingdom of Nineva,
Where mortals shalt see thee never again,
For here you'll dwell forever and ever.”

This sent poor Lenore reeling far in mind
That with cinder-like eyes stumbled behind
But her galleon she could hardly find
For it had long vanished into the wind.

But hark! Yonder woods sprang a companion,
A lad whose names were Edgar Alan Poe;
Bestrode upon a snowy fair stallion
Who unto her whispered softly and low:

“If the moon be fair, then thy skin fairer,
If the stars be bright, then thine eyes brighter,
If snow be white, then thy lip’s gems whiter,
If the sun be hot, then thy hair hotter,

Then tell me, what bringeth thou to Nineva,
A realm of eternal sorrow and fear,
Where no mortal hath escaped ever,
But ever doomed in dungeons of despair?”

Despite her visage was lugubrious,
Her worries were all now but fugacious,
That yonder fair floral woods susurrous
Galloped whilst trees sang in tunes mellifluous.

For Edgar’s words of kindness had soothed her
Now doth she beam with ethereal luster
Like of night lanterns upon heavens shore
Scintillating in a wondrous cluster.

Alas! strange and covetous myriad eyes
By yon brier coveted the beauty queen
That as passes a fiend in the night skies
Did spy upon her with eyes all unseen

'Tis then when Edgar was away hunting
Whilst the beauty queen was all alone singing
When those dreamy figures came whispering
Amongst each other whilst wildly smiling.

Bestrode upon many a snowy fair horse,
Their strange faces, as pale as death her self.
Their voices, as if thousand snakes didst hiss,
Betwixt them, there lordly sprang an elf

Who unto her said, "how sweet thou dost sing,
Thy melodious voice would so please our king,
Unto thee, rubies and pearls shalt he bring,
Of banished gold shalt be thy nuptial ring."

"Nay", softly replied the little maiden,
To thy king I canst not walk down the isle,
For in violent love I'm with a swain,
Thy king's treasures outweigh not his smile.

"Wretch", why dost thou abhor our proposal?
For soon thou art to regret having done so,
So cried the elf, "opting for a mortal
Than a mighty king who is immortal"?

"Hark! Fair moon, see that morrow by noontide
Thou art by the edge of yon verdant moor,
For then thou shalt come with us yonder side
Neath the sea, and dwell with us evermore."

At this, a wild wind danced by many a leaf
And so vanished the strange troop of the elf
That she busted with a sigh of relief
Though deep within, her soul kindled with grief.

Not long, news sprinkled into the swain's ear
Who gathered a troop of a thousand men
Each bearing a bow, a hummer and spear,
All ready to guard the beauty queen.

When came morrow, they took little Lenore
And laid her beneath a lone sycamore
That stood by the edge of a lonely moor,
And then all matched towards the shingly shore.

No army led by any hostile king
Towards them could ever come any near.
There job was great that they did chant and sing
Songs of triumph of the fled days of yore.

Alas! To match towards the sycamore,
There pale and cold laid innocent Lenore
With not any single bone of poor her
Broken, but her breath taken evermore.

Mute, forlon, and motionless stood the swain
With bitter tears galloping from his eye,
With his soul 'neath a sepulchre of pain
That from yon day on, the realm he did curse.

For in Nineva, a realm dim and deep,
There not a mean ray of light canst now creep,
And there all creatures night and day dost weep
Till sweet Lenore wakes from eternal sleep.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 16th.July.2018.

#tale #adventure #fantasy #Lenore #EdgarAlanPoe #Nineva
"Nineva" is a magical kingdom in "Kikos's Legendarium"...a miscellany of tales of mystery and maccabre like you've never heard of. Tales such as: The Enchanted Gold, The Dwarf Of Nineva, Woods Have Eyes, Jazabel The Witch, The Novelty Tea ***, The Witch's Cauldron, The Lonely Hut, The Nectar Stream, among so many others.
And this tale is as well one of a grand scene in an adventurous movie script im penning.

#Each line in decasyllables
#Lenore is a name of a maiden I borrowed from Edgar Alan Poe's tales of mystery.
jee Dec 2018
noun.

hot-rod red, boiling—veins snake, denim—skin throbs.

my eyelids are pounding.

dozens of sparrows, pushing at pale canvas.

thunder gasps at the
caverns
of my lungs.

lightning
at the fuse.

noun.

an Edgar warning;
thumping at wooden chest,
racing.  

it just echos.

i am not your dictionary.

i am not your dictionary.

reverberate.
reverberate.
reverberate.

hollowly, it
hymns.

muffled by fire-truck cloth
and sun-starved cotton.

noun.

blue trees dance to the
rhythm,
singing up at skylight eyes.

reverberate.

breathe.

reverberate.

repeat.

noun.
(n) the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.
What's Hollywood?
Leni Riefenstahl's dream;
via, J. Edgar scheme.

                   Kelly McManus
Time;

it always
leaves me
counting.

Even
Edgar Allen Poe.

And I
count the days
until I will
haunt
some of
you.
Like a
crow

you swooped
in
like
Edgar Allen
Poe.

Like a
raven

ebon figures
are full of
misbehavin'.

Like a cat

Halloween left
you trick
or
'treats' fat.

Like an
arsonist

you charcoal'ed
the home
and raised
your fist.

Like a
shadow

you sit
in sin by
satan's window,

Yummm,
let me
devour
your soul.




written by me... ..
Adarsh singh Apr 1
Age 12,
not a single tension of this world,
standing at a standstill,
And shouting ,'**** the whole universe'

age 13,
failed first time,
everything was fine,
except my parent's pride,

age 14,failed again,
for my pride,
my mum made me change my school once again,
I didn't feed on sun,still for everyone I was an alien,
thanks to Harry, Ron and Hermoine,
I learnt friendship from a friendship which I never got,
thanks to J.K Rowling too,
she's the reason why these rhymes make much more sense to me than those value of pi's do,

age 15, failed once again,
but no worries,
cause I know I am going to change the game,
that doesn't mean I don't cry,
don't worry,
when someone asks me,
I never tell them 'why?'

I read Edgar Allan Poe to Dan brown,
did not leave even a single account,
but still the main question remains,
will these words going to take me somewhere,
or even anywhere else,
or I too, will became a 9 to 5 slave just like everyone else.

-my story by adarsh Singh.
Victoria Feb 19
Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.

“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”

Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
By: Cedric McClester

Do we have problems?
That’s for sure!
But, I still love
The city of Baltimore!
From the Inner Harbor
To Cockeysville.
Did I neglect to
Mention Federal Hill?

We’re known as
“A city of neighborhoods”
Where WEB DuBois
Was first understood
And Edgar Allen Poe
Showed that he could
Write a scary novel
That was very good

We’re the same city
Trump chose to malign
But perhaps that’s because
We’re one of a kind
Or maybe that’s because
He lost his mind
It’s either one, or the other
You’ll surely find

We are the city
Faults and all
Where the Baltimore Orioles
Still play baseball
And thousands of immigrants
Heeded the call
When they came to America
Summer, winter or fall
























Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserve.
Reading an anthology of
Classic poems
On quiet a night
With wings of
Enlightenment and delight
My soul took flight
To far-off lands bright
Rife with musical poems
Some brain racking,
While some savory but light.

When I saw celebrated poets
From my dream plane
I decided to alight
So that the messages
Encoded on their poems,
To me they further explain.
Cognizant that
Hearing things from
The horse’s mouth
Like Antarctica
Will not make things
As far south.

I saw Helen Steiner Rice
Reading whose works
Like  ‘Christmas Guest’
Is nice.
When she me behold
This to me she told
“Till your corporeal being’s
Turn come to be a sod
Never desist to
Put your hope in God,
Who foresees and shapes
That will unfold.
Always dwell
In the vineyard of
The Lord. ”
Drew close James Stephens
With Helen
You are right nod.
“Chap, if you look around
You will behold
On everything
The hallmark of
Creation stamped by God!
Also excellent, from
The ordinary extra,
Your will hear
Nature’s God praising
Orchestra! ”
Willian Henery Davis
Courteously came by
To say <<Hi!>>.
“Be content with
What you have
You will be happy
When that you learn to love.
See you not why
The example set
By the butterfly,
On a rough rock
That sleeps content
Without a blanket! ”

Soon I met
Enda St. Vincent Millay
Whose fame
Surfing the tide of time
To date that does resonate.
“As the saying goes
‘The world is lovely
And the loveliest is enough!’
To be happy
Try to nurture the culture
Of admiring nature.
Waste not time
Go to the mountain
The secret of happiness
To you it will explain.”

After seconds walk
William Ernest Henely
Approached me for a hard talk
“When beset by challenges
Never give in
That is a great sin!
As for me, whenever
I fall
Soon I get up as the
Captain of my soul.
Though in the darkness
God seems far,
For the downhearted
He is a lodestar.”
I saw Elenor Frajeon
By a roadside
With a book in her hand.
“Love to books
Is a launching pad
To a wonderland,
Where readers meet authors
Of different brand
Hence, a window to their
Soul they will stand.
Also read my poem
That draws attention
To mother-to-child affection
That defies description.”

I met anon
Austin Dobson
“A rose
To itself
A question
Opted to pose.
‘I wonder why
This hoary-headed
Gardner refuses to die?’
But soon
A wind blew up
Its sun-withered
Petals to the sky.
The analogy teach
On the timeline
Brief, beauty to a grind
Will screech.

Patted me on the back
My son,
Ben Johnson
“Like a Lele
Being short and brief
Could render life
Ease and relief! ”

Sat on a rock
Samuel  Taylor Coleridge
To me a secret he broke.
With bitter smile
Waving his
Pen as a tool,
“Those who think
A poet is a fool
They will realize
Who is rather the fool
If they think with
A head cool!”
I saw Walter De la Mare
Exactly the way towards
Old Susan he used to stare.
“Susan taken away by
A romantic fiction
Past midnight
Sat on chair
Engrossed in a monologue
‘Breeching
Culture rules
Is not fair! ’
After
One’s age
Did advance
Reading fiction
One stands
For reliving
The past
A chance.  ”

Soon, came William Blake
Me to the graveyard
To take
Pointing to
A headstone
“Now, my enemy,
Object of my anger,
Is dead.
Subject to a
Conscious pang
It is divested of a soft pillow
I go to bed!
You must not yourself find
An axe to grind
Otherwise, to a reason
You will become blind.”
For supper
Volunteered to be
My host
Robert Frost.
He stressed
“To settle
Punitive price
As lethal
As fire is ice!”
Came an invited guest
Edmund Spencer
To tell us
The mystery
That put
His phlegmatic dream object
And he, her
Ardent lover, asunder.
“When fire and ice
Are locked in a love’s dorm
Out of the norm,
One may not change
The other’s form! ”
Via the window,
I saw a graveyard
Past the meadow.
When my eye caught sight
Of Julia Caroline
I took steps
To sit by her side
The meaning of eternal love
To understand.

“A kiss on the lips
From a lover
Is a keepsake stamp
That transcends
An earthly map.”

There in the graveyard
I met Sara Teasdale
“Like a low hanging ripe fruit
In the gray time
When a lass
Is off guard
To ****** her
A chance a lad
May stand.
Also from affection
For conjugal felicity
Many a lass
Could give added attention.”
I posed
Why should you show bent
To profanity?
“My friend
A *** could not be taken naughty
For expressing man’s sexuality!
For the answer try to meet
                Anne Bradstreet.”

Before I asked
Her why she
Committed a suicide
She got clear
From my side.

Anne Bradstreet
I met
“It is tragic
To have at home
A child with
A down syndrome!

What lurks
In the subconscious
Of an author or a poet
Through his/her pen
S/he may seek an outlet
So to date,
Regretting
“Why did I
Write this a taboo-seen
Thing!”
Seems some author’s fate.


I saw Thomas Hood
Amidst his harvest
That fares good
He told me
“From a perfumed
And well attired lady
Who belongs
To the top brass,
It is by far better
To tie a knot
With a provincial lass,
In her hair
With a fresh flower
Plucked out of the grass
She shines bright
Bathed by sunlight!”

Out on the street again
I met Lithuanian Salomejia Neris
I became happy
As I never wanted her to miss.

I asked her
About the heard-renting fate
She, her father, her mother, siblings
Neighbors and her age mate
Underwent.
“During the  World War II
Children, who
Otherwise were
Considered
Unfit for themselves
To fend,
Were forced
The brutal ****
To defend!”
Soon I met
Richard Lovelace
And John Scott
Locked in an argument hot.
The former
“I want to head to the front
It is a source of pride
To fight on
Nation’s side.”
The latter
“Paying a price grand
I cannot understand!”

Edwin Arlington Robison came
To tell me the story
About Richard Cory
“Measure not
Your life by
The success of your object
Of admiration,
The one a role- model
You hold or held,
I am afraid
Off guard
He can lodge
A bullet in
His head.”


I saw William Butler Yeats
, an Irish poet
Who raised an issue hot.
“How an
Angel helped out
A tired priest
A snap who
Could not resist
While a laity
In his parish
Was Ceasing to exist.”
Robert Herrick approached
Me this to speak
“I am smote
By grief,
To see a Daffodil,
Like human beings ,is brief.”

Said Emily Dickinson
“It is when you ere to hit
A target heart felt
You’ll understand
The meaning of
Having something desired
Under your belt.”
At last
I saw
Edgar Allan Poe
To make this to me
He made haste.
Though a pauper
“From my soul mate
No earthly or heavenly power
Is capable to asunder me
Top date.
After reading this much
I realized why
Poets never die”//////
Give me a feedback on this poem about  famous poets  and the themes of their poems.Google and read about their history and read some of their poems.I have trans
Allan Mzyece Sep 2018
Once upon a time was I a prodigy,
Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery,
A fantasy beyond thinking,
I was a child of precocious virtuosity.

But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar,
And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria,
Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera,
A phenomena not to be taken dilemma,

Death do us part dear poet
Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal.
I know not who I am,
But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that
Buries everybody's histories.

Death is but void and will lead me to become  a martyr,
For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And  not a literature,
I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister,
They will all say great things about me-
Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture?


I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook,
Look!
Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist.
Yet, what am I rather than being a poet?

For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings,
I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus,
Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features.

Who else but her makes my story worth telling?
But yet I was in bedlam because of her,
Yelling like a certified lunatic playing,
I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings,
The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming.

Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?"
Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch,
Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw
That me and her were a match since this world begun,
Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart,

I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive,
So I ask,  where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******* who truly knew how to write?
WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE?  WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE?
indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why?
It's because I am still alive!
there is a vastness here

where a small breeze,

the size of a decaying sorrow

wakes the cold again

which may be all that’s left of me.

where a diamond pale haze of stars goes on eternal

like sound that has found a final silent shape

on a black sky where it means everything

It cannot speak off.

it’s empty out here, and cold.

cold enough to reconcile

the frozen cries, the kidnapped voices

and the silences that move

with certain cadaveric contractions

along the frozen emptiness

and In the morning when I look out

the previous evening remains

in its blank, cold, unforgiveness

even though I sang for them in

the eternal extensiveness of

the freezing cold, the stones

still cry with mouths opened wide

while the small icy wind and unsympathetic

moon subdue the apricot flowers,

Now the piercing cold day Is no longer enough

For all comprehension escapes me

suddenly jumps with fury hurling terrible hostilities to the sky,

as wandering ice spirits without homeland

begin to groan with a vast and vacant voice.

And frozen hearses, with muffled drums

and tragic music, slowly pass in my being

conquered, weeping, freezing

this atrocious iced and despotic place

plants its black flag in my soul

Now I do confess through boreal breath

I don’t think I will ever see the

Red Tulips again
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