The bridge swayed though the dignity ran past,
For there was no hand or arm of rests and paste,
Keeping names of sweetness, bravery of sweat.
One cries out taking up a musical rhythm,
Louts are instilled with love of the spirits,
A swaying turban has been built on the lesser men.
The bridge swayed more like the fingers of halves,
Beneath a glittering day of nights and desks.
The bridge took up songs of the type that sweetened
Us through and through.
By this day of days we think matrimonially,
Lulling the quietness with distinctness.
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