"A Woman is a beautiful thing
In the same way that a volcano
Is a beautiful thing"
Says the mother
Whilst offering a tramp
A nosegay of violets
Rather than suffer the infamy
Of money
The daughter seemed latent
Behind her charming umbrella
"What is it you want next?"
Obligingly she follows
Umbrella wet between her legs
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Human consciousness is not linear; it is marred by thoughts, surrendered to by guilt, subject to ecstasy and fueled by selfish compulsion. Shouldn't a piece of literature be the same?
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