A
lyrebird
Swift-footed it stops behind a mountain ash.
All genres are destroyed at last.
History, mistakes, swallowed up in a nominal grub.
The slow wild alcoholics of the nineteenth dare make no
reply.
I tip my beak to the sky.
A nest-building lament starts up.
It's humans taking up too much room.
Swift-footed it stops behind a mountain ash.
The enclosed imagination buys a hunting
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