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Chips
Fifty-two royal rectangles
Each hiding a different ecstasy
Seven lay in my palm at angles
My hand, which you cannot see
I can conceal my solid, steel grip
Of majestic, stately septuplets
I feel my blank expression starting to slip
My brow, once again, I knit
Tossing my faces upon the frigid, grainy wood
And feeling a smirk toy with my lips
I'd mutter one word, if I only could
With music in my lungs, I'd say "chips"
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