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little feet
they run around the house
yet they do not utter a whisper...
they pit pat down the street with sweet grass on their mind
and never once complain of the hot concrete
they step on nails and tacks and thorns
yet never speak of the cuts and bruises
they come in all shapes
all sizes
and they all long for the soft sweet grass
that lay just around the bend
and the grass makes it all worth it
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