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My baby girl found the easy end's edge,
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.



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Comments

The following comments are for "Scriptwriter’s Picnic."
by ^white

poewhit
You have to read the SMALL PRINT well in those chains

( Posted by: poewhit [Member] On: May 29, 2008 )





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