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Onions

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They burn my eyes,
They make me want to cry,
They remind me of guys.

Every time they get sliced or diced,
I feel the sting hit my eyes,
Anytime a guy tells goodbye to this heart of mine,
The same sting reoccurs.

They get moldy,
They get old,
Onions and guys both.

Sometimes they just need to be thrown away,
They need to be chunked,
They just do not need to be around.





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