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Despite his gaze and touch, they left a chill.
And though ‘twere dead, we still wouldst have him stay,
And so, we stuffed him full of bark and clay.
And brought him with us, in his manner dressed:
To those who thought him live, we naught confessed.
And dapper as he was, he rode the fair,
Between the Queen of Harvest and the Mayor.
And all proclaimed his proud, unruffled calm:
“For civic faults, he is the perfect balm!”
Now, seeing as he was our friend so dear,
We thought, in death at least, to make him peer.
And seeing as the pop’lance took a shine,
We ran him for a riding in Tropine.
To all, he brought his strong, unflinching stare,
His back was stiff, his mind without a care.
⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣄⡀
⣴⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣮⣵⣄
⢾⣻⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⡀
⣽⣻ ⣿⡿ ⣉ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏⡟ ⡉⢻⣿⡌⣿⣳⡥
⢜⣳⡟⢸⣿⣷⣄ ⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⣤ ⣼⣿⣇⢸⢧⢣
⢳ ⣸⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿ ⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⡟⢆
⣾⣿⣿⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⡀ ⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣿⣿
⢀⣀⣼⣷⣭⣛⣯⡝ ⢿⣛⣋⣤⣤⣀⣉⣛⣻⡿⢟⣵⣟⣯⣶⣿⣄⡀
⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣶⣶⣾⣶⣶⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣧
⣿⣿⣿ ⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿ ⣿⡿