brimming with crevices,
laden with whorls -
a carapace here
a curlicue there,
festooned with odd embellishments,
with sconces on our battlements,
in velvet gilded with fleur de lis -
no stoic spartan spirits we,
no simple hearts, no plain ascetics;
like troubadours, we're peripatetic.
We have rococo souls.
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