I have all the stuff of dreams.
Any third world girl might envy my sweet life.
Gathering genes pushed a search
housed with pride,
one might mistake for greed.
The things have not worn out,
Are they the pain my neck reports?
If rid of them
could the grave be for these burdens,
not for me?
I heard about a friend
whole children brought a dumpster
when she passed,
and all those demitasse were chunked,
tossed out with worn out underwear
and smelly gowns.
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