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What Our Children Will Say
I'll count me toes;
Ten to be exact.
And I'll check on my nose,
Make sure it's compact.
I can't be different from you,
No, I must be perfect and quaint.
I can't be less than you;
I don't want to be taint.
You're pictures are alluring.
Distinctions start blurring.
We must be one in the same,
Or I'll never reach fame.
Dear media, I'll try.
Till the day I die,
To fit into your image and ideal,
No matter how unreal.
People say I shouldn't so,
I see them just as lustful though.
They don't know how you compel me,
Nor do they see what I see.
And how much you pressure me to fit in,
I can't stop until I win.
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