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All English Sonnets


With a gritty lift of the shoulders deft in chin
Not hiding the big rift in worn out paints
Just on the seal where world has kicked him so
Frequently that minimum to all these kicks

No why to get in there Nowhere to go
He still persists in moving ambling for
A toe hold on the owning of this life
No streets exists. No trouble turking there

Although the jails are full of rambling bulls
But street are thronged with ones who got away
Who still had bit of marrow left in veins
Would bellow, few important kicks or two

And scamper back for meals- unashamed
To huddle all defeated- in the inooks( Petile)
Of life – the Jail from which no freedom get.

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