It was my fault
Mea culpa
Mea culpa
And Besa me mucho
I hurt for hurting you
I am sore at the point of touch and thought
It is not that i have come to value your esteem
In fact you degrade daily in my visage
And that excavated, planed, and waxed the slope upon which i slid
I was the scarecrow on an ochre-stoned road
All weebled and wobbled and Epimethian.
Did it matter that the ends were justified?
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