At_Last

Cousin Martin's letter charged, Nagging wounds assessed as healed, Vicious packs of wolves at large Running through our fields. Angel feather sword in hand, Returned, in haste, to my own land. Instinct in my axe, Cousin Martin pulled me back. "My CuChulainn Of temperament sullen Waive that tempered blade We despair of equal force In you, my hopes, a wooden horse. Your bid was Homer bade. Erect, as lures, of muse's arts Equine runes for ruined hearts And, if such taps remain, Pipe your conscience to their brains. Our needs require balanced juries Not more Hectors dragged for glory. From the gloom Above the fray, Ignite your flair In your own way, Don't be doused by manly fury. Suck their poison, Spit our story." Thus I lay this mattock down In hope of striking fertile ground. So, please don't fail me patient friend You are the field I tend.

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