I, Sheherezade, I

“Function, sweetheart.” A line in code, Bogart, feeling the burnt calamity, The sweat of cities, And the hearts all pretty. Served with new orders, realizing She flinched dramatically yet faintly, Rudely chortled, then crossed her “i”s. He barely escaped a double, a body, The usual. She’s pretty, toiling for trouble. Yet Who’s the true Scheherazade? […]

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