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I would with holi colors paint the clouds that float on high.
I would with absinthe paint my garden and my sky,
And there, without a thought or care,
I would get drunk with Baudelaire.

But, nowhere would I go with him.
He thinks perfection’s never there.

I stay at home instead,
And, brush my hair.

I think the world’s most wondrous lair,
Is mine,
And, therein,
Every speck of sand,
Does shine.

And, mine,
Devine,
Each glass of wine,
So, too, the root of every vine.

And, through the heart,
Of, each and every,
Lovely columbine,
On me, and mine,
And, also thine,
The beauteous earth,
Doth shine.

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