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Abounding is the imperfection of this world
But seeing them is just as odd
And not seeing them too
For we are left in a ruse
Only to look
Never to see, for we are in the nook
We wish to 
But never tried too

Words come in thousands
And actions in thousandths
Oh! That we may see more
Then look less out the door
It's better when we look on inside
For that is where the tonics hide 

Copyright © | Year Posted 2010

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