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A crown around a cloudy brow makes sleep to seep away.

A deeply sleeping king may bring a crowd too proud to pray.

The mass will pass a classy lass in deeply cheap array,

To will their fill of chilly thrill against their brazed display.

Who knew these two unruly fools, whose wit seems not to fit,

For where they go or what they know, matters not a whit.

One's job's to rob the ruly mob and take away their pay.

One alibis and slyly tries to trade their pay for play.

Once duressed or duly blessed by either of these two,

Your pockets torn or truly worn by fingers passing through.

To lose our truths in booths with sleuths, the life we spent is bent.

They bind our mind and then we find we don't know where it went.

When all is said it's those in bed who slice our life so thin.

We share and care, though unaware of regal, vicely din.

The king has wed the whore in bed and fleeces us with ease.

Why do we work when only a dirk will rid us of their disease.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was inspired by Poe who liked painting pictures with words. I "painted" this one around 1984. The meaning has to do with the government represented by the king and the people represented by the femme fatale.

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