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No more rhymes,
No more painted books,
All are stuck in that dark sequestered nook.

Expectations have escalated,
No more recognition of petty good things that we do.

Pouncing in the mucky well,
Laughing while our shirts turn grubby and hair dishevel.
Oblivion to this merry we are now,
No more shabby shirts,
We cling to our tidy tuxedos anyhow.

Cackling and chortling, giggling away
After the mischief that infuriated Aunt May.
In a blue funk we are,
There is no guffaw in the most cynical jokes put up so far.

Squatting on the bullock cart,
Drifting away, enjoying the weather,

so happy and gay.
numb to even the mere breeze, we are
Busy paying those premiums of our luxury car.

Assumptions of the jaunty grownup life hasn’t turned true,
Irked with growing up,
I have turned so blue.


By: Alice Longman

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