| c/0 St. Ignatus House, Willoughby Drive, Parrametta,
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| New South Wales
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| This fifth day of July, in the year of Our Lord nineteen
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| hundred and thirty five
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| Why must I apologize every time that I sit down to write
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| Through my own fault I may find
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| You’re no longer living at this address
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| Please excuse the lack of news
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| The feeling of strange privilege
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| for the hour of trial, in these times of distress
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| Mean more than years imprisoned by etiquette.
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| I can remember when we were children
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| Though I could never imagine this day
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| Your brother told me we’d live forever
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| «I'll go one better,"I heard myself say
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| And it seems so strange, now that he’s gone to recall all these
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| games
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| While the years have divided us Friendships have strained and broken
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| Oh, by the way, how’s that girl that you wed
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| I hated you then, but I’m over the worst of it
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| I can’t come home, I might as well say, life is short
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| I shall not write again |