Dearest Oscar Finn. Wilde,
Oh! Is it not a poet I have herd? For I have only read! You are a poet I havent seen, for when I met you you where in your death bed. It was coverd in lip stick kisses, from your foot to your head. You were cold and made of stone yet, your heart still glows! Fairwell dearest Oscar, I read you now, and I read you when I'm dead.
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