She was too old. Too dried-up. A December bride rescued from spinsterhood and assigned the place of helpmeet, companion, cook and laundress, with the sex thrown in as a bonus.
The votes have been counted and the electorate has spoken.
Mourn not, ye friends, all must this tribute pay, And all remingle with our parent clay; What though grim death his object ne'er should miss, He's the sole passport to the realms of bliss'
Confidentially, most people have brains, but they are not using them. They have left their own brain farms and gone out into the highways and byways, slaves to the intelligence of those who they call bosses, the few owners of the earth.
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