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I sit on a windowsill, cup in hand. The cup is attached to a four hundred mile-long string that if its path was traced would lead to your hands,
  In a way we’ve all become dull Our mundane lives make sure we’re all the same I’m still not full   From the daily lull  Of our differences being our shames
Waking up every morning to the same tune Thinking about leaving this place from morn till noon Stumbling out of bed thinking of who to impress 
Dad who knows me so well Who tucks me in tight with allhis might Who is a big soft teddy bear filled with love Who is always stressed about tis and that Who doesn't play games or do fun activities any more
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