| Why are some men born
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| With minds that earn degrees?
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| The loving cups
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| Gilded plaques
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| Grace their study walls
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| Hide the cracks
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| While their genius is turned
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| To works of tyranny then
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| Off to market to market
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| Go selling these
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| With words so fiery and persuasive
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| They steal cunningly
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| Riches no one can exceed
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| Why are some men born
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| With a fate of poverty?
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| One firm bed
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| For a swollen back
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| Year by year
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| The bodies wracked while
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| Their obedience is had
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| With gradual defeat
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| By the pace by the pace
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| And the urgency
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| Through a muddled thought
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| They phrase it
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| «God knows we’re deceived»
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| Barter for
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| What they need
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| And where they go
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| Disdain and jeering
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| For fools to call
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| The noble peasantry
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| O how it puzzles me
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| I pressed flat the accordion pleats
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| That had gathered in his cotton sleeves
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| While he thumbed
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| Yes thumbed i wouldn’t say caressed
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| The final piece
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| A mountain’s crest
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| Soon to reply assuredly
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| For a man aged ninety years
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| No words to waste on sermons
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| He’d be pleased to answer
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| Short and sincere
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| «Girl there’s a nonsense
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| In all these heaven measures
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| It’s a heathen creed
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| So your grandma says
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| But better to live by
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| Drink it all in before it’s dry»
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| He ended there with a rattle
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| Cough, cough
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| I took away the long gone cold coffee cup
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| As a trail of camel ashes fell
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| On the floor |