He though Exiled!
lives for me, to hoist the free-will—
A flop-cheesy.
In me
I burn the fire in piles, and
In columns, I let the beard
Grow, wave and flow,
For a fragrant-combed growth;
To hide the well-bred wildish sins:
Roaring
Growling
And Hissing—unheard to your ears.
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