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Practicing people are not particular,
Perhaps because all people carry buns.
Year's end's a time of darkness, true, but when
Has darkness ever darkened one small light?
Our pleasures are like candles in the night,
Lighting lamps that burn beyond our ken.
In celebration there is more than joy:
Days of feasting bind our friendships fast,
A fat and full embrace of things that last,
Yet holy in what sense one might employ,
Savoring sweet songs that spirits buoy.
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