The crossword is a corral
filled with words
by the sharp pencil's thirst.
Warmed by the letters inside,
decorated outside.
A relaxed chat,
a blue feeling's grab.
A cat with the cream,
the dogs never seen.
The construction;
a spy's intelligence,
the chimney and a bell,
overhangin an acrid smell.
It has its moments,
no less no comments.
There are many ways to the end,
when harassing, admited and off sent.
It's up to the player
whether or not man fills it later.
Sometimes,
the front of the door
may agonise.
No panic,
the characters fit always inside.
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