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Wrong Hen to Peck at.

These eyes are filled with drink. They’ve seen more than you think. They’ve looked at thing which stink. They’re made of liquid ink.

This face is mine forever, nobody else can claim. I promise you, search the world through, you won’t find one the same.

The hands have picked a million beans, these nails have clawed the earth. Their joints have killed some things before, they’ve also given birth.

You think I’m ugly, you think me poor, you think you know some stuff. But I have walked where you have not, both gentle and I’m gruff.

I have watched a thousand die, was sitting in most rooms. I’ve prepared a thousand girls to meet a thousand grooms.

Who are you, with your pen and notebook, to come take up my cause? You would not dare to sit and stare, if you knew what I think of your flaws.

A thing refined is a thing pared down, a thing which has no strength. You count me poor, right at the door, but you don’t know your length.

I am longer than all your money, taller than the wires in your fields. Interview me one more time, and see what nothing yields.

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