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Here's to my glove,
Where I left you in a bush,
You weren't as new as gold,
Or as stiff as wood,
That is formed to the shape of the ball.
You didn't compare to a Muzino glove,
With its stiff leather
And pillow top padding
But I think of you Every time
I stick my hand in the stiff leather of my new glove.
Epitaph poem
12
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