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Mishappenins, a thing they call shankin’ 

Mist falls over hood eyes

As blood-red roses crushed petals

Dig deep and find,

An empty air of bravery 

Come masking come compulsory 

We are children hidden from gentleness 

Ridden like stallions when ponies we be

Green mangoes far from pull and pluck

Yet unripe we fall

Too scared to call

Grievin’, that’s all.

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