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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree


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No words could ever say how much I miss you;
no hope remains to reinstate the past.
To have a second chance of life at last,
I need to see a miracle come true.
Yet every time I think of you I love you,
remembering the special sparks of joy
in daddyís precious lovely little boy Ė
youíre all that fills my life, God knows itís true.
I hope that you donít miss me Ė oh, where are you?
Youíd feel as I do now, and thatís too sad -
for little boys donít want to miss their Dad,
and all the words of love we spoke were true.
Can mothers love the puppets that they keep
for cold revenge, while sons and fathers weep?

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