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Song of Myself, 12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens
his knife at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down
Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great
heat in the fire.
From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their
massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow,
overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.
Walt Whitman
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