Our Round Ball - Poem by James McLain
Copies for the worker, always working.
Each round ball you never copy, comes around.
America which they can pull they push.
Africa the pharmaceutical the children's, candy ate.
China, and paid directly, organs playing monkeys make,
that nothing really is, entirely of.
Each damaged day unmade,
and wear the cloth and pray each night for day.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You