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It’s hard to see through sad puppy eyes,
I’ve heard nostalgia is blind,
so, we’re one in the same,
I guess we both see our pre-school walls,
feel the cold bosom
of evening,
lick the seltzer vapors,
trade our thoughts
on love, what it really means;
sometimes it’s unrequited,
naïve,
blind or led on.
Then, we grow through stories of folk songs
told by mandolins again,
again by fire's light.