God bless the working class, the lonely that is silently heard, clothed from the streets and from every man's eye. the morning would shine through when i would see her going home after a hard night's rest, which comes every two weeks, every fight night that i had remembered in life when the doors were opened and the incense burning to Heaven. burning with the love of God, who was the burning of our souls that were presenting to thier Lord when Prayers of the saints were cast into the air.
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