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 Harry Sweeden. My life in verse.

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It was all on the surface
Nothing was real
A picture to smile at
The truth concealed
A muscle to lift weights
A fighter to fight
A prisoner to do time
The truth contrite…
 
No one could see through
The image portrayed
No one was helpful
His bed had been made
All had been made up
Long before he was born
To smile at the ruins
Of a life that is torn.







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