A neck of coil Lips made of leaves Skin covered in oil Fur on her sleeves A heart that grieves A coffee-stained moon Work works as a bunch of thieves Now her skin, wrinkled as a prune . Misshapen eyes in the sun broil And paper skin just now receives The ink from the fruits of our toil And in her last breath, she heaves All these things she perceives She starts to croon Her memories weave Now her skin, wrinkled as a prune . Under the boiling sky, we moil Her torso remembers the bereaved The print is as harsh as kitchen foil We push and pull the eaves Something in her wants to unweave It's the way her head is immune Something in her wants to retrieve Now her skin, wrinkled as a prune . She drinks up the sweet tea-leaves And lies inside the dune She is told to find relief Now her skin, wrinkled as a prune
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