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Flat Line

Flat line,
You want to keep the beat.
Flat line,
No one wants to be dead meat.
Flat line,
Life is rather bleak.
Flat line,
Because the heart is too antique.
The heart is a hollow muscle,
Being the size of my clenched fist,
Blood through veins and arteries,
That helps some one exist.
Pounding at seventy times per minute,
It doesn't use RPM's,
It weighs less than one pound,
When alive it's your best friend.

©1999-2019 Steve Bujanow

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