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Cycle Cycle Cycle.
It flows out of the soil, It burns you if it boils, And holds us in its coils, More valuable than gold, As black as it is old.
Blind but cruel.
When I type I tap these on the keys
I have a butt, but I'm not alive. I bring smoke, but am not fire. I destroy, I kill, though I am not used in a war. What am I?
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