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I can not leave these woods quite yet.

Let me tarry, let me hear the many stories my mother used to tell, of wolves and bears, of witches that bear poison apples, of dragons and knights in pitched battles, of girls with golden tresses, of mice and birds that make dresses, and ogres and boogeymen, princesses and princes, but why so grim, why so gory, why not just a simple story?

These woods are lovely, dark and deep,
And maybe just a little scary.

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