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I read a book about a girl named Zazoo But maybe that girl was me. She made poems as she rowed a boat in a canal And watched for her sad gray cat And thought about the war and how terrible the world is
They yank on their skates, criss-cross the laces and tug on my hand with stubby fingers. The ice is thick and crusted with white chips Pondscum and cattails are hidden under the marbled crust
I was just old enough to Tie my shoe, When my dad could hardly wait, To teach me how to ice skate.   He wrapped my sister and I, In coats to keep us dry. And packed us in the car
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