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The Last Conquest of a Dead Man MAG
A look, a glance, that
 
 Quickly becomes a stare
 That lasts until 
 A step toward
 And a smile
 Works its way out
 From under the depths of a brooding soul
 A solemn man, a sailor
 Never to return, a last night on shore
 And a final conquest.
 
 To know one is the last
 Is a privilege
 A notch on a belt
 A bead on a bracelet
 A mile long
 And yet, if one was not the last
 But the first of many
 Would one feel the same
 As this single organ in a man's last attempt to be free?
 
 One should like to think this true
 But could never, not of a true contender.

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