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Watch the back-alley war silently fought,

The trapped rats’ emotions,

So keenly aware,

It’ll be square,

With a knife in the spine,

And a giggle in the gullet,

Wood burnt air,

Grey ash hair,

An aroma of jimson tea,

And cold hard cash.

Icy white stare,

Stripped down bare,

The hands grip now light and knees buckled in,

Let the futile axe finally swing.

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