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Long neck, the rest of which is poorly fed poorly bread, with a poor-man's head. Four limbs together and a life still to not dread. But far from which your fireflies said, the gnome's still in love with the fireflies' bed. But the giraffe, now it's true that you're long-winded in all that you do holding your breath and keeping your mouth closed while you chew. That gum isn't glue. And your spots aren't covering you, so I'll give you a poncho in which to dance. And with it maybe a new position on life can be your new stance, you're who pranced, fence-fancied the lass who last wasn't cast by what's on the mind find found fast and last in your looking, words aren't bound to your booking, but the rook-king split is spilt from your fingers. All the that's left now is the bad taste that's you lingers. In the thinks I do; winter is who. Giraffe is as long as his neck wants him to. (Sun sipping and blue.)