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They've faced a hundred judges
And scorned the firing squad.
They've got unstained away
From even the bloodiest job.
Them care for a little girl?
Or for the rhymes I speak?
That one, say - with the fringe
And half-inch powdered cheek?
You stand there, haggard-faced,
Just one look at your blouse
Shows all the fingerprints
Of the Malakhovska crowd.
So why cry so much?
Why, shining with tears,
Rudely whisper to me
The purest words you can hear?
Suddenly, down from the train,
Leaving the passengers stunned,
You
purer than
Beatrice
On to the platform you run.
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