There once was a friend of mine in the sun
A thorn with an angry thumb
A flailing hope with a cheshire grin
Oh how might my dear friend could swim
But the end of the time of the day
And the cold of the manage of the say
The winning of the lost voice of trust
A day without much of a bust
The worry was all genuine
How could the thorn make a way
A day without a good hope
A thumb caught in the rope
But the edge of the ear can belie
There must be more than a stiff spry
And the Chinese moon was a mess
Who could answer for all the chess?
Inside every cookie of fortune I must say
I see a good deal of hope but not much a lay
There is no complete revision
Of ever due season
And the China Dream was not a more than ever little nightmare of lost poetry.
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