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Poem	A little bit of fool in me Hides behind my inmost tree And pops into the narrow path I walk blindfolded by my wrath Or shrunken by some twist of pain, Some hope that will not wind again. He ogles with his antic eyes and somersaults a you're-not-wise Until the patches in his pants Go colorwheeling through my glance So fast that I cannot recall That I was mad or sad at all. A little bit of fool in me Keeps evergreen my inmost tree.
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