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We heave, but cannot lift the sash,
Our muscles weak, through lack of cash,
And thus, with noses squashed, we stare
At all the goings-on out there.
Our panting breath conspires to make
The smoky glass e’en more opaque.
Those pastures that once seemed so clear
Dissolve in steam and disappear,
And so we turn, lament, begrudge
The window that, for us, won’t budge.
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