In place of can, the children kicked the bucket.
A sickly thud.
The faint aroma of cinnamon filled the air,
But the people were with all regards impatient.
"Turn me out, then."
The moon waxed wan casting
Rose-colored hues upon their visage.
They shot shy of the trap again.
Around the jigsaw precinct all was a capital contrast.
Pin pricks electric.
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