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george bailey

Mary, married,
sold the moon for a home,
the banker needs the money, his home, is cold

a new car, to some drafty house,
the furnace burns inside the wife's blouse,
my beautiful wife,

my tears for your dreams,
my dreams for your children,
a couple glasses, for what we have

a garden,

and our souls,

you're beautiful, the way you hold yourself so modest,
you burn the snow,
my education for our furnace,

it's not called compromise.

It's called sacrifice.



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