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What a world, what a world,
in which we live,
when a touch of dizziness
can do me in...
I want to write
...to sing, to dance,
but all I feel is
whirling effervescence.
Emboldened, I return
to the outline unfinished,
and I read
mysterious words
that did not come from me.
I know I typed for many hours,
hammering on the keys,
but o me o my these words
are beyond the frightfully dull
that I'd written last time...
Who wrote these words?
did talking mice
sing and dance upon my keys?
If so, then why o why
did they leave an unfinished garment for me?
(sigh, smile, pick up your chin)
the words they keep coming,
I might actually win?
Shew, shew little mice,
I have much to do,
return a round midnight
when I have most need of you.
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