Poem| Apollo
T'is blood t'is hot
45 degrees above our lot
Piercing pores like a laser
Washing over the earth-a lova
We watch the plant smile
Flowers abound all over the mile
They watch us drip and dry
Wet again, from them, a far cry
Bury me quick, clammy soil
Will relieve me from this boil
Red and red, it grew hot while
Plague or blight, rescue me from this plight
Jewelries blinding my eyes
Gather them, bring them while
I make the pyre. This fire
Will quell and assuage apollo's ire.
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