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Go Mull

I've lived a quart of a cent,
met souls as beans in a bag.

All that time, among people spent,
any tendril I extend, yields dissent.

I'm guided, by stars which are dead,
their light misguides, distance time by & by went.

Nobody's prerogative, aching lament,
All I want is my Smeagol.

I relent.