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My granny was insane.
As her madness ripened into death,
my uncle, a miser,
kept her in our storeroom
wrapped in straw.

My granny dried up, burst;
her seeds flew out of the window.
The sun came, and the rain;
one seedling grew up into a tree,
whose lusts bore me.

Can I help writing poems
about monkeys with teeth of gold?