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Lionheart
Who would compare my skin to champagne,
Like a pompous Dionysian,
As it falls, yellow, off the bone? No one,
I'm afraid, and I mount a fear,
of rotting in the dark alone. And who,
Among lambs, would hold these hands,
Letting these claws shred them to the marrow? So you, My killer, head of gold and silver,
With your haughty eye and wry smile,...