There was a bottle made of glass
Sitting on a dusty shelf
Filled with the glory of itself
And not allowing change to pass
This bottle, of the greenest blue,
Keeping nothing of great Truth
And in wishing it had any valid proof
Broke itself for lack of value
In broken pieces on the floor
Pride not meant to be mended
The unworthy life had thus just ended
And there it was, finally pure at the core
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