The Rising Smoke - An Original Poem

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_{Like a yeasted flour
Steadily, the smoke keeps rising
And the furious fire
That sits beneath the heap of hay
Keeps burning brightly.
There is plenty of drinking and dancing
Nobody seems to pay attention
Soon, the fire will romance the idle gallons
Of gunpowder. Boom.
The legs cannot find the shoes
Neither can the eyes find the eyeglasses
Everything is ruined.}

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