Under the blue moon you shall cry.
Dose it whimper on thee days of cold and ice.
And the falling rain are but crying tears told by day drops pride!
So listen close and lay thy better head atop my breast,
For now I shall sing to you from the rythum of my beating heart.
But forsake me nawt or be treated as a child that is not so pure.
And hear me now when I say.
Children are for us to mold, not mend.
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DEAR PEPS!
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I-Ploxy-I
Community Member |
