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In the Habitat of the Magpie
Oh, we will get out of here
Where everything's impure, not clear,
Where, as they say, it's all shades of gray,
Won't we, old self (though time I fear
Is getting on...) -- like the magpie
We saw springing up today
Lightly from his putrid meal
On the pavement, his feathers
Such a fresh black and white.