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Work

Work. Toil. The pain I put in the ground. For such a precious thing. Corn. The family enjoys their meal. They plant their leftover kernels. And wait for me to tend to them. Work. An endless cycle in which happiness is born. ©Demand4poetry 21 February 2013

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013




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Date: 3/20/2013 12:47:00 PM
I like the old Ink Spots recording - "I'd work Ifn I could find any pleasure in it." Regards, daver
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