Poem
A surgeon addicted to order, his mind seeking disorder, but is was fiction, he was dedicated, mature, a sniff above the competition. He had no escape his house impound there was no way around, by the bank to be frank. A loan to big, a gate to high. A rider to a death camp, a distant memory to far, he had to regard. A superior fever for his wraith. His words bitter like garlic, he seek an escape comfort and timber, a beach to which to rest.

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