Little mouse squeaking through the hall Gathering crumbs to spread around at cold heavens ball.
Scurrying side,to side,
unveiled no where to hide-
Hidden faces it tries to disguise
Off the square intellects now compromised.
A critic could surmise, perhaps it’s a lie
Perhaps,you speak but rather words had died.
If, a stallion is to stable
Then, Words from critics mouth is like a mere fable.
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