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He plays a song
On a lute he made
Its pure tone
Made of dead woman's bones

The tune he plays
Are the notes he stole
And those words
Such lovely words
Such poetry
A dead woman's poems

The words she wrote
His literal hand on her metaphorical throat

He takes his wares
To the market square
Where the men confer
They then aver
“what intricate things he strings
from dead woman's limbs”
And so it goes

For what's a song
Without a strong man
Stringing along

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