You have to go home
But the dog did not answer.
A wagging tail, a wriggling body, his youth his joy.
And this just when the writer was in doubt,
If this is Csaba utca why is the bus stop Maros?
And yet his worries were not heavily inclined.
He had a pen and paper, beer and table, and the girl.
An ink blot at a full stop and a pause did figure that this was his flow, but his contrived.

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