| Oh so young when first i fell to fawn
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| But now its four years on
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| And though slight your shape belies
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| The teenage timbre of your tongue
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| Face and frame precious and plain
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| Yet all such things one day succumb
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| You were 10 as i turned 21
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| But now its four years on
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| Liberties such as these scarcely trouble me
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| Sweet sweet weakness
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| Brings the way you tease
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| Quattordici and spotty cheeks
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| Favors me such strange relief from certain culpabilities
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| And renders seemed so indiscreet someday to which wed seldom speak
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| So tender me this decency
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| That stays thee safely out of reach
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| All the same were it true
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| Still theres room for two inside of you
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| But whats come over me
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| Would i falter hapless in your (fluidly)
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| Of spare expanse beneath
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| Oh no not me so sickened to the teeth
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| To see thee roam free of hallowed modesties
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| But all that i could be among
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| Those fresh and fair faced thieves
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| That stand to seize
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| Your sunbleached symmetries
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| And piece by piece these brief eventualities
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| Would ween of me and feats from far from me
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| Would treat you tenderly
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| Until you cease to be |