System the crocked cross the code yellow star machinery of death will grind the trains keep on rolling both nearby and far the cargo is of Abrahams kind Gasping for air in the stench and the heat losing track of the number of days only the cramped space keeps people afeet while all hope vanishes like a haze All comes to hault and the doors slam wide open then all are called out on the ground a sweet sour smell fills all lungs on the platform ...
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