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So, back up here a moment, we're wrangling the elk so Shakey can have a cool arse throughout the AZ summer, what are we going to do with the wombat?
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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