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Created on: October 07, 2009 Last Updated: October 24, 2011
'One for sorrow,' the old rhyme goes;
The magpie follows my every move,
Harbinger of a loss that none can sooth,
Like the bite of a winter's wind that blows
Relentlessly to the bone.
'Two for joy,' the optimist states,
Yet the pain increases by degrees
As the magpies mock me from the trees,
Their numbers predict my fate:
All I see is a collection of ones.
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