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Practice Makes Perfect...

She had stood by me,
As I painted each dream,
Of where we would be,
Floating down that stream.

A squeeze of the arm,
A cheery nod of the head,
We’d no cause for alarm,
Loving where we’d be led.

Moments appeared,
Sometimes as bas relief,
Then, as wood seared
Icons beggaring belief.

In joy, I did whistle,
A serenade all my own,
The melodic epistle,
She soon found a drone.

Her brows in a knot,
She looked at me askance:
‘You must've loved a lot,
To be an ace at romance?’


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