said to charioteer o sun ” Ma pipes can beat thy harp anyday.” An he agreed an said that winner would av the other. A thort am in here, either way.
So r blew till ma cheeks puffed art like Minerva wat slung
pipe cos it did that an med her look ugly.
a lost, an charioteer has me nar, “Ah-h-h! why r tha now ripping me apart? A pipes not value of ma life!”
Ma living skin is ripped off from ma limbs, ma whole bodies a flaming wound, wi nerves and veins and innards open to air.
An all you grieving folk a shed tears
on fruitful Earth, drop dahn to her deepest veins, as drip moistening dews,—and, gathering as a spout, turned uppards from her secret-labyrinth caves,
to spurt, sparkling, in sun-snogged air, clearest river in land through which fast flows between steep banks dahn to sea: and is named atter us “The Marsyas”
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