Keeper of the museum,
rather mausoleum,
in rehearsed discourse proffered:
"Shall I display an array of sordid decay?
'Tis the halls hold the old
the walls, well, wield the mold
It rests upon I, the crutch
until it becomes too much
and loses a little more or such
until once again I choose to clutch
Hold the old,
my tea the mold
Company dead and cold
leave here and there some gold,
if I may be so bold"
Graspy soul with raspy goal reflects:
"With me entrust the dust, the rust...
the musty lust of yesterday's disgust!"
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