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Whom-so-ever Make ye not a path for the sainted virgins For they are not worthy of your holy oils Lest ye forget they were not born of the sacred womb But of the adulter's body Black are the skies of that venemous night Where neither strife nor good toil It is not where the minds lay In that unholy ground and soil The prayers said quickly lest the body rot And the putrid smells fill the queasy sky Sprinkled waters on the grave Make not for the holy one yet to come The sky enraptured saw below And smutted down a fisted frail folly Was it not for the holy ground of consecration? I would not lie beneath |
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