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The wind picks up on the eastern seaboard,
And thick, dredge, rain beats down on our harbour towns.
It will rip and tear it's way through the bowels of the country,
While we hide in our bunkers and on warm barstools.
But we will weather this storm together,
And raze our fears in the floods.
And through this reductive novella,
I have tried to outline,
Our decline,
As I see it.
In terms of,
Self-preservation,
And communication,
In our own introversions,
And ending.
And in the depths of the tempest,
We could bind,
Some new ragged standard,
To sail behind.
And in the depths of the tempest,
We will build,
These soaked timber bastions,
Against the wind.
And in the depths of the tempest,
We could find,
Moments of calm,
To hide inside.
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