By 11, I thought I'd have it down by 15,
But by 16 and a sour sunday morn,
And daisy chains foiled into the moor,
And hands that tighten but ne'er lighten,
Hands that strangle, stitch, and liven.
Of ties that wrangle, withhold, hang o'er the handle,
And toe-tipp'd kisses of kids with scissors,
Incisions of misses by razors and flesh...
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