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The Dirty Butterfly

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A shining day spreads tranquil joy,
The flowers mock the movement of the light breeze,
But one so-called blemish on society weeps,
Begging for love, begging for hope,
Passing by, a woman notices this assumed flaw,
She clenches her pocket book close to her chest,
and masquerades her colossal fear and bestows no attention,
Upon the harmless man who settles below the bench,
His dirty beard conceals his lips,
but still his moans of hunger are heard,
Three fingers are bare of his decaying mittens,
And grime leisurely reposes on the surface of his skin,
And everyone fears this dirty butterfly,
Even the park statues cry.



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