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Poor Kid

 Mumsie and Dad are raven dark
 And I am lily blonde.
''Tis strange,' I once heard nurse remark, 'You do not correspond.
' And yet they claim me as their own, Born of their flesh and bone.
To doubt their parenthood I dread, But now to girlhood grown, The thought is haunting in my head That I am not their own: If so, my radiant bloom of youth Would wither in the truth.
'Twould give me anguish deep to know A fondling babe was I; And that a maid in wedless woe Left me to live or die: I'd rather Mother lied and lied To save my pride.
I love them both and they love me; I am their all, they say.
Yet though the sweetest home have we, To know I'm theirs I pray.
If not, please dear ones, never tell .
.
.
The truth would be of hell.

by Robert William Service
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