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If magic was poetry He would be the pen that created the prose With sparking gold eyes And hair black as ravens wings Standing against an alabaster colored sky
Strange that the woman doesn’t seem to mind. She’s surely Celtic -- or was, years ago. (Her skin’s too pink for the Mediterranean. Besides the half-regretted magic on her brow betrays her Briton-born.)
Who am I? Is that really the question? No, that can’t be. The real question is this: Who could I be?   Somedays I’m King Arthur, strong and fair A man of valor sitting in equality’s chair
Lights flashingMechanics whirringThe Doctor's come at last Time passingColors blurringThe Doctor's coming fast
One beautiful morn, so fresh and oddOn a distant crag, a man did trodHe raised his blade to hew a perchAnd from the gouge three stones did lurchThe first was quite pale and buffed to soft green
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