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Passing Days
The days are jingle jangle like half brave men
They line up at the slaughterhouse door
They are halfed and quartered but make no noise
For their heaven is calendars and clocks
Some time escapes and run into my body
But it doesn’t age me
Not by much
They line up at the slaughterhouse door
They are halfed and quartered but make no noise
For their heaven is calendars and clocks
Some time escapes and run into my body
But it doesn’t age me
Not by much
