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As they tread the boards
In a region of frost,
Viewing the frost.
To a chirr of gongs
And a chitter of cries
And the heavy thrum
Of the endless tread
That they tread.
To a jangle of doom
And a jumble of words
Of the intense poem
Of the strictest prose
Of Rosenbloom.
And they bury him there,
Body and soul,
In a place in the sky.
The lamentable tread!
Rosenbloom is dead.
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