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Lion With A Strawberry Mane
I'll take my drive to a candy cane lane.
To visit the Lion with a strawberry mane.
In his brittled down cave he lays there alone.
Laying upon his potatoe couch throne.
Green roots are grasping against his fat spine.
Notices he doesn't, be he drunken with wine.
The grass he's been smoking, it clogs up the room.
Upon his berry chest, are crumbs of mushroom.
He complained highly, intoxicatingly purred.
Angry splurges slithered his lips, fully by word ;
My ignorant, innocent, eyes became opened.
Naked, they looked, glancing exposed.
To colours, ideas, all newly proposed.
My childish mind had joyishly hopened.
When there, you're not there, you're not even here.
But wherever you are, all is perfectly clear.
I've never seen a Lion with so many tears.
Not that I've seen many in my limited years.
To what worried his mind, the cause of his fears?
He mentioned something, "the jungle she hears!"
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