Amidst a stroll one chilling winter evening, I cast my eyes upon a withered oak. Her bare visage me strangely pleasant seeming, In Dryads' wells I craved my feet to soak. Her spirit emanates a simpler passion; Of coyness free, benign to lust, inure To baser strokes of transitory fashion, Upheld her nakedness as virtue pure. One blemish seen, though naught of her defaces, As heav'nly dimples, th'heavens won’t contain: Two sneakers (two usurpers), bound by laces, Begrudgingly swung down her tender frame.
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