As my mother once wrote,<
Lying now upon a bed in a room,
Where I hope she hears notes,
Through the window not quite open enough,
To be caressed by the wind,
Though sure the birds huddled 'round the feeder,
Take her home washed of all and any sin,
Which only she'd know 'bout 'cause I've ne'er seen,
An act not fuelled by love,
'least no malice for all as it should be,
Per th'universe above.
That's how she thought,
Sorry, that's how she thinks,
Her strength lies in her own nat'ral beliefs,
Stalwart and pure right up to the nth brink.
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