Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, Money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, Reason in its season but no rhyme.

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18 Sep This entry was published on September 18, 2013 at 10:37 am. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged samrat747. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.