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Held aloft.. For all to see.. None finer in the land, The cup; A golden chalice, The wish of every man. The powerful.. The greedy.. Each clamor for a touch, Believing if they hold it, That they do rise above. But have they not forgotten, That at his son's last meal, His cup made of wood. .. No golden chalice here. Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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