The lasses stand many.
Have done for yore.
Amassed, aplenty
They've macked,
They've tacked.
These forestry sentinels.
'Till greedy wind
From Establishman
Without pause (!) causes
A callous decision,
Which grows on
This beating heart.
But! Such pulsating show,
Not beaten yet,
Wind can be farmed
With natures deft.
Ne'er be still
This wicked,
Cutting breeze.
For mighty ant
Rufuses heed.
For it's one of millions
In this bosom,
Can put a stop to
Self-promotion and
Eat the foundations
Of high and mighty
Tree-housed nations,
Shift fragile twigs,
Build the nests for
Brethrens' bones
And repair this
Narcissistic wooden
Heart.
"Las" in Polish means "Forest"
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It's incredibly important.
Dziękujemy.
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