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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Cultural · #1769856
A poem of sorts
A feather drifted down through the air and stuck into the slicked back hair of a player of plays upon the market square.

And everybody giggled, but Romeo.

And Romeo took the feather then and threw it down and cursed the hen,
to Juliet he spoke upon a bench,
“Come down, you must, you maiden wench! And Juliet to her own demise, failed to mask her own surprise, and lost the line that meant come hither, and said instead with a bit of snicker, Oh Romeo, she called from ivy heights, Is that whipped cream upon your tights, and Romeo left the stage stage- right, for it was too late now to dicker.
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