Including many fine poems and songs gathered in The Wilds, such as this:

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The coins are famished in the vault.

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 Take warning traveller: let them lay!

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 Their hunger is a restless curse

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      which gnaws the pith of things away

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     till nothing is but what it’s worth

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    till nothing sticks or stays in joint

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        and all that’s cherished, kept and clutched

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    barks with the barking of the coins:

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            how much? how much? how much? how much?

 

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