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| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Contest >> ID #1158325 |
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I sit on this bench with bread in my hand, You inquire of me as kids often do, Feeding the pigeons, you don't understand. Tell me a story you always demand. The stories a plenty, we all do share; Parents do call, then you hurry off too, Knights on white horses and maidens of fair. Like pigeons taking flight, into the air. I share my story, with the pigeons here. Passing along my legacy to you. All cooing with pleasure, as they sit near. For this knight's tale is ending I fear.
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