We might be imperfect in our charming forgivable ways, and we might
not be the cooky cut out classical models that we'd so love to be: But, that,
that, we don't do. We don't do that. Oh no. We don't do that!
Perhaps if only to establish a line between what it is and what it is not that
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This poem reminds me of a rodeo. Bucking and shouting.
Your responses are so poetic, like poems themselves. They always enhance the sensibility!