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bird on eggs final

Little Tommy, he didn’t know

His life was a pile of eggs.

When death landed on the breast

Of the brittle mountain

Some slipped safely to the periphery,

They were the ones piled first,

While the newest eggs

Fell from the center down

And cracked with the sweetest sound,

The softest tick and click,

Dulled instantly

By the spreading of yokes.

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