Splicing fine lines
sounds nice,
enticing my eyes
to blink twice or thrice,
while I decide,
aye, I confide,
that vices suffice
for lice, men, and mice.
Spices of life,
revised via scythe,
widen the winds
of time binding ice.
Realizing my site,
I slide to the side,
a reprisal refined
with a tight toss of dice.
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