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Woe to me! for I have become
like the leavings of summer fruit,
like the gleanings when the vintage is finished —
there isn’t a cluster worth eating,
no early-ripened fig that appeals to me.
The godly have been destroyed from the land,
there is no one upright among humankind.
They all lie in wait for blood,
each hunts his brother with a net.
Their hands do evil well.
The prince makes his request,
the judge grants it for a price,
and the great man expresses his evil desires —
thus they weave it together.

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