If you will give these praises to nonsense;
Let the boughs fall and the forests burn me-
Oh, but I am made of stone.
Who are they?
metrical feet?
discarded like phlegm?
dead men worth as much as rain?
How were you impressed by others?
Surely you had no taste at any point,
To whet your lips on such a paltry note.
Be proud of your dust, if you have the stomach.
I suffer them to live.
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