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| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Personal >> ID #1044973 |
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Get out your shoehorn,
I値l wear you like tight shoes that pinch my toes, press against the corns. You'll keep the fungus alive that gnaws my flesh from bones. My toenails are already ridged, yellowed, turning inward. Green pus marks the pain. So lend me your shoehorn. I知 ready to walk all over you. K蚌e Enga ゥ 2005 (161.1132) 7 mars 2005 A tad bit on the angry side. Am I telling it or showing it?
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