All but her, sashayed through
Nothing to evoke guilt
When they fought over lime-stones
With a dash of filth
The profane Prussian hue
The prurient summer sky
The pharisaical turbid ale
The pragmatic’s divine vale
All but her, marched on
With the grunt of swine
Piqued by the nocturnal overtures
A faint fleeting green smile
Amidst the mob, did she stand?
Did the conjurer start his juggle?
Was the veneer red and bright?
Or did they mistake her visage?
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