A yacht from its harbour ropes pulled free,
And leaped like a steed o’er the race track blue,
Then up behind her, the dust of the sea,
A gray fog, drifted, and hid her from view.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
And thus the people every year in the valley of humid July did sacrifice themselves to the long green phallic god and eat and eat and eat. T...
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