Among the afflictions,
With which I’ve been marked,
None so pretentious, no,
And none quite so dark.
I get the feeling you’re bored with me,
Not through habit or frequency,
Did your mother have you easily?
And if there’s some place else that you would rather be;
Then go,
Then go,
Then go,
Then go.
Among the intentions,
Which have been sought,
Numbered and labelled,
But none of them bought.
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