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Heah, my mother lies Sleeping on the bedroom floor Nothing will move her Solid, stiff Age has its beauty Indeed on my creed Yet, when it comes to sacks Full of wobbly potatoes Where is my handle? My mother love? Nothing makes her stand I, too, age Nothing do I have To raise her from the floor O Lord, I, too, age My muscles share me no more. Stephen Vincent http://stephenvincent.net/blog/