traditional

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She scans him She talks about him She gets to his hair And his eyes And his lips But looks at them Like they're Her hair And her eyes And her lips She's so greedy
in white she was to be in in a different place   eighteen of the ninth month it was to be   white as an angel she was having papers of white   time took its time
I like the poems of yesteryearThe poems of ‘twas, and yon, and ere,The poems whose ol’ archaic tongueWas in its prime, and lo, e’er young.Their tales were spun of days of yore
This house is quiet for it knows The little horrors it’s seen the lows Although there are some happy days There are more memories that curl the toes   The little girl stops and lays
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