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john tiong chunghoo
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it smells stale like fish rotting in the drain
a mishmash of of straws from streets here and there
put together in a hurry the fasion of a frantic chase for love
and feathers a latter addition, they stuck onto the straws
starched by leftovers of food, of love, affection and faeces
here and there, little furry feathers orchestrate a dance
heralding a dream that has grown and flown away
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