I will.

I’ll write of a rock, 

and some smock frock,

Resting on the thighs of her chest.
I’ll write of a coke,

Oh! Poured in some cold filthy strange boots,

Worn by fierceless war grunts.
I’ll write about a smock,

An heavy mukluk worn by drunkards,

The dark meat of every doberman.
I’ll write of a mock,

And a turtle soup sold to the immigrants,

Held in an holding cell of dead.

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