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A Poem For My Bedroom Door
I appreciate my bedroom door,
it is wooden, and crooked and old.
It holds my towel overnight, which dries
and lies, white and waiting for more use.
My door is painted white and slants,
towards the South, and the CN Tower.
But what I enjoy most about my door,
is that when I want to, I can shut it.
bad poetry? Oh noetry!
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