I am sittin on the porch of our wooden beat up old shack, that we call a home. The wind is blowing, with all the makings of a sandstorm. I can hear my hard-working father walking up the street, his chaps and his spurs rustling in the wind, with every step. My soon to be step-mother, rins to him like a half a dollar hooker, and all i can think is "
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