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She speaks to me in fur-lined phrases,
then ducks me when I have no dough.
And, then, I stare down, dumbfound dazes,
echoing, the green words go.

She talks of tall tales, golden castles.
She loves me just on Friday nights.
She doesn’t know me when I'm broken
like the riot stricken lights.

Her mother smiles and talks quite nicely
when I play in Payday’s pond.
Then frowns upon my presence other
days when of me she's not fond.

The words of love she speaks so softly
linger long within my head.
But i's not love she wants I'd give her,
it's interest she wants instead.

COPYRIGHT 2005 by Michael Bonanno
LOC Reg. #TXu934-647

Reproduction of “Girl” or any part therein
without the express written permission of
Michael Bonanno is prohibited unless the
reproduction meets The Copyright Act “fair
use” doctrine, (title 17, U. S. Code)..

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                                                                                                                               (and some other assorted foolish verses)