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Chirping in the thickets, aye
With spatterdom and funny walk
Where's Cleese?
Freshly cremated earth beneath one wing
Human skull round the other
Herd the children towards the peck-ed stones
Not vultures, but white tasty meat
With hurried feet trespass
Disturb the slumber of six-feet-deep
Consecrate, consumate, berate, and masticate
Yet know ye that they below hear brief squat
The living spirits sew
Chickens into pots

"Many people hear voices when no-one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing." -Margaret Chittenden

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The following comments are for "My Funereal Friends"
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