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Ode to the morning after

Oh my dear, what brings you here? Is it the pleasures of my company?

Shall I begin to play my mandolin, to recite tales most softly?

I do declare, I can’t control my stare, as you cross the room with grace.

For as you walk, I can not talk. As I am lost in the glory of your face.

But had I not found you hot, I truly could not be.

And as you pass my front door of glass

Your glorious ass is all that matters to me.

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