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WELL DESERVED




Whatever we live for
Be it pun or euphemism
Perhaps a mere metaphor
No matter one's fetishism 
Nothing is worth dying for

The hay we make even on holiday 
And the hive we craft per se 
Will definitely pay off someday 
Maybe not immediately
But most definitely

So when the season comes
Faithful enough to arouse few smiles
Just as our sun dawns 
To light our path over miles 
That we too can walk on tiles

We pose again to gaze 
Not at our land full of maize
Nor the properties we've made
But to render praise 
For that free trade;
Of breath without buying oxygen
And bread albeit, from heaven.

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