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Haiku : Five Verses In Seven Days, the 554th. week

In my miso soup, secrets of the state and my wife's love, reflected.
On almost too late, the man whose bandana wrapping around on his neck, sinking in quicksand.
The eyeball, by four his fingers, on the sink crawling.
Of the spittoon, even sinking on the bottom, this is the money no matter who says.
By covering up with white cloth, on the dead bride, shelled her body.

composed by them.

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