more, more, more

I closed my notebook, no more answers could be found within the bound graphs. The list had lost meaning, for time being, the songs had been played, the scenes came to a close as the curtains fell, violins packed in their cases, amps unplugged and stowed away, Ralph staggering out of control, leaning on the loving shoulder of Misses O. Rebel yells crying more, more, more.

David Cain, Song of Songs

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About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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