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With my words as my paint
The sun is up it's the crack of dawn, time to start the day. The roosters crowing, the hens are laying, through the mist of morn I see a baby fawn, time to throw the hay.
What if today was the first and last time you met me? Would you be able to have a conversation with me? Would you be able to look past my complexion and my intonation? Never once looking at the span of my hips
The fluffy, green grass, Of the Midwest’s rich soil, Pads my barefoot feet. Deer, rabbits, and birds, In hilly corn and bean fields, Fill the open space.
Several tilting "condemned" posters plaster the front door Aluminum foil covers windows busted out by a meth lab gone wrong