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Each spring I clean that closet in my head
Old fashions, as some friends, go out with style
Emancipate the living from the dead
I have the gift to turn gold into lead
My shortcuts all become the longest mile
Each spring I clean that closet in my head
My skeletons have all been interbred
I keep my demons simple; lacking guile
Emancipate the living from the dead
Forgiveness flees when all is painted red
Reunions cancelled for a little while
My decency remains a single shred
The hungry years demanding to be fed
The budding Spring suggests another trial
My leeches plagued by ticks as I am bled
The upper crust removed from all my bread
Another tome to grace the compost pile
Each spring I clean that closet in my head
Emancipate the living from the dead