| of all the tender taut and innocent
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| sacraments ive tangled with
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| celibate or seldom split
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| separate as which was writ
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| chaste in desperate ways
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| and raised of fitful faiths
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| patience praised and grace ordained
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| in face of these latter days
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| but what such traces must remain
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| of a phase lately lain to waste
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| and what such fates we two betray
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| as your sacred legs gave way
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| as sure as you are pure my love
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| «a touch of blood and so its done»
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| and though we spoke in tongues my love
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| would surely not send from above
|
| all the slender soft and supplicant
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| sacraments ive sinned against
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| as if in which i might relive
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| your sanguine skin or sins therein
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| put prides and tithes aside if you must
|
| but faith has nothing left for us
|
| in stolen moments as such as this
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| by which i have placed my trust but
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| grace has no such place for us anymore oh
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| as sure as they were pure my love
|
| ive chased of us in everyone
|
| and though i know all fates succumb my love
|
| what sanctifies my swollen sum
|
| but the tender taut and innocent
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| freckled flesh ive tampered with
|
| supped and split or suffered through-
|
| whod vainly take this place of you |