From the tick bluck mudden
I, an off-key creaking, grokked
of oak staves swilled to burst
and was thirsty to be Gehäuse.
As the creaking strained or dripped
and the cooper droned or tripped,
I parched me tithe naked and alone.
Mitt mein sliding in dein Wald
me sotted softly down erect,
moistly tannin on your dregs-
can the harvest even matter
when one true thing is known?
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