To stop our fun
The remote kisses of no tribalism
With bridled ovum
We once could relate
We once could communicate
But terrorism we hate
Makes us hitherto to disassociate
But truth being no more our mate
Builds the man's estate
Where little we are to the angels
No more war, no more hatred
But fun - also shared by the Arabians
The man's estate
Not this man's state
The Apocalyptic taste
Truth mate.
Continue in SPIRITS AND LIVES.
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