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Red trees in the courtyard shedding their leaves,
Blue sentiments of a nation electing its first black president,
White rings of cow’s milk drying on the mantle top.

While everyone does the chameleon jig, I’ll drag my risk-averse middle class ass to my cube because it’s so much easier whining into my half-empty glass. After all,

The falling leaves warn of harsh winter days.
New leaders need to resusciate a nation long dead.
Nothing can replace the warmth of a nursing child.

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