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Frederick (spam poetry theatre)

D found some spam sent to Webmaster@. (I can wait while you read it.)

I saw something struggling to get out, so I let it have its head.

Frederick, my Sundays are yours.
Let us converse between our meetings;
traverse the ancient roads.
Rome and Athens, England and Geneva --
Europe shall be ours.
We incline toward each other
as naturally as the willow and the walnut:
you, standing sensible and strong;
I in my premeditated descent.
Let us make reparation for this
our sanguinary war upon each other.
Love has made us passionate, persecuted.
My proud exile is at an end.
Let me make some reparation and be, once again,
your Rand.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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