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My Bonnie looked into a gas tank,
The height of its contents to see!
She lit a small match to assist her,
Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.
Every man is as God made him, ay, and often worse.
-- Miguel de Cervantes
Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp! cries she
With silent lips. Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me
💄 -- ⚡ -- 🕺 -- 🏓 -- 🎍 -- 📒 -- 🏀 -- 🚙 -- 🎽 -- 👽 -- 💗 -- 🌽 -- 📘 -- 🍧 -- 🐠
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