My baby girl found the easy end's edge,
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Sat on the ledge beside a sunflower patch,
Gathering gold under sunshine's fetch.
Her fountain ink found a finishing act,
Of tragic misery in every beginning's beg,
Weaving a stream of ample lack.
It delivered the theater a whimpering pack,
Of confusion hung on a rusty steel rack,
And solidified pain stake for her gag.
Such was her first playwright contract.