which relieved me somewhat, even with
half his face gone, he outshown me,
a poor servant boy with hidden quills,
trothed at three to Haag, Great and Glorious
Never-Ending and Far Seeing Queen of
the Giant Black Dung Beetles. At the
awesome hinging of her knee, always;
she pampered me into submission
with the soft down beneath her forques,
lay me beside fountains of nectar, and
watched me come to age, come to know
her treachery and her lies. Baudelaire
didn’t care, no, he did not. Not a whit.
I tried to tell you.
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