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Maybe, in spite of their tameless days |
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Of outcast liberty, |
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They're sick at heart for the homely ways |
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Where their gathered brothers be. |
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***** |
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Meanwhile, "Blacksheep! Blacksheep!" we cry, |
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Safe in the inner fold; |
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And maybe they hear, and wonder why, |
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And marvel, out in the cold. |
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—Richard Burton. |