Tuesday, June 14, 2005
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Rating: ★5.0
That dusty dilly-dally over Back Lane, Barn Lane and past McGreevy's blackened house, sighing in the creaking sunlight.
Your queenie allowed you three goes to my one. You wanted four; afraid to lose. We gave way once or twice to timid traffic; blunt, black motors, steered by earnest men, scanning the liquid road to nowhere.
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7/30/2025 7:40:51 PM # 1.0.0
