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  • Writer's pictureBethany Stimac


This isn’t fair, it isn’t fair

Words like these

Fall into air

They smell so sour

Upon the hour

Rotting away like

A crumbling tower

Words like this,

Why can’t I, why can’t I

Are ten steps down

From a certain high

Like clipping one’s wings

To learn to fly

It reeks of waste

Like a putrid paste

And sinks like stones

Disgracing bones

And we condone

Words like such,

It seems to me

We munch and crunch

Every single evening

For our daily lunch

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