Glimpses (4)

His mother was an absentee, 
His father, an explorer —
He grew beneath a dying tree,
Both up, and poorer —

Now autumn sings out in the woods,
As winter comes a-calling;
He’s got the cans, but not the goods,
And more than leaves are falling —

We live, because we’re born to live,
But he’s afraid of dying:
And if I said he’d told the truth,
Then I’d

Be lying

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