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A young man of 18, seeking his fame,
Did dare to pursue with confidence anew,
His American dream serving those who flew.
Eight years toil amongst fuel spills, gravel and soil,
He sought to secure that elusive American dream.
A financial novice with hopes to spare,
His opponents drew him like a fox to the snare,
Lending him funds with assurances repleat,
Then pouncing upon him publicly to hasten his defeat.
Now a complaint or two they may have,
Indeed not a every pound could be repaid,
And tarnish and slander his name they would try,
Even speak ill of dear 'ol mom,
But the last laugh you see my friend,
Will be found in his copyright of this poem,
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Copyright © Greg Crook | Year Posted 2012