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A minstrel sits down

With his Technicolor mandolin

Accompanied by his ensemble.

Speechless, he strums on the strings,

A tune that excites heart and soul,

Bringing rapture to his audience.

The mindless admirers

Dance to his vain ballads,

Oblivious of shame or fatigue.

And yet he sits down, heartless, 

Heartless, unmoved by his tunes

Or his blood-boiling songs…

He who sings and plays

Yet never moves along 

To a spell of his own making.

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