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  You can’t play footsies with combat boots   Thick like your thighs Heavy like your body
At about a certain age, Probably around eight years old, Almost every boy will want their own wallet.   Not much thought goes into it, Not until the arrival at the store,
Bound up in leather, like the books And held by paper chains A heart no longer functioning Inside, no soul remains   They put a hat upon her head, pulled low To hide the brand
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