poetry by Mercysmine

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 Come November
Come November, she'll be fifty nine
Eighth child born, to a worn out
Mother, maybe she'd been smart to
Have used a pillow, "OH" poor baby
Smothered


Come November, she'll be fifty nine
Learned early on, no one gets a free
Ride, if you ain't got no money
Then you'll pay with your hide


Come November, she'll be fifty nine
The dregs of the gene pool, don't
produce no queens, wash your hands
Girl, supper's getting cold, someday
Your face, will catch up with your
 Nose


Come November, she'll be fifty nine
Been around the block, a time or
Two, nothing really changes under
Neath, stick it to 'em" first
Before they stick it to you, is
The general drift, if you don't
Understand, you'll catch on quick


She's biding her time now, picking
At lint, think'n bout where happy goes
When it leaves, wondering how much
More lint she'll find, come
November, she'll be fifty nine.










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