The Towncrier Calls


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Rolls out the drums of plight,
He did with all his might,
The tears of the soil dropped on his legs,
Hear me out, he begs,
His knowledge is as of a potter,
Moulding out terra cotta pots,
He called out fiercely in their language,
The rat in the clay houses would hear,
The messenger called in fear,

Fear for the message must be conveyed,
The burden he had to bear,
He called for he had been sent,
I speak of a middle-aged one,
The sun burns spoke of his age,
Calling for he had to pass on my message,
He cried out in rage,
Calling for my thoughts for a bunch,
For it pushed in luck.

Do not retire for the town is troubled,
The soldiers backed out puzzled,
Keep calling for its knowledge would pull them up,
The water is dry for it was left in a broken cup,
Call in with the mop,
For I think,
The bunch would bring back the water, the cup and sweep out out fears.

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