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I could smell the crackle of poppycorns
On freshly cut grass -
When we are old and nearly dead,
Made less able and decrepit -
-
My fathers hands
are worn and weary -
In the mirror I see my reflection
Oh, somehow my face has lost its perfection -
Waiting pleasantly and calmly
-
The whispers that my marbles
are all scattered far and wide, -
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A Blessing: May your cup runneth over."
A man who drove the stars,
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