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In the Manor House, they dined on pheasant from silver plates,
Drank the best of foreign wines, that only aristocratic class dictates.
After, the men excused themselves, for cigars in the red leather hall.
The ladies dabbed the corners of their mouths with handkerchiefs,
Made from the finest lace of all.

In the evening, they danced polka and waltz in formation fashion
Chased one another along the mahogany-lined corridors of passion.
Then they paired off, to lie in four-poster, satin-sheet beds.
For the time being, nothing of significance, came into their heads.

Tomorrow however, someone will draw the 'shortest straw'
Have to ride to the nearest town, galloping through the winter thaw,
Inform the doctor, that up at the estate, the staff are in tears,
As their masters lies dead…

A bleak realisation of their employment fears.


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The following comments are for "...the mice will play"
by ograd77





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