Eros Piccolo.

Rich as Rockefeller, the world our oyster and you, my pearl, for me to behold, of your divineness, like medallions, in tresses of your hair. Vaults may be full of gold and bullion, like aged wine from grapes on vines but if Cupid's arrows were needles, my heart would be your pincushion In your chest of woolen tokens turning everything golden, and I playing Eros piccolo, rich as

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