We’ve been here before. The same
culdesac were your grandparents lived.
We held hands at there funerals and sang
Tiny Dancer. It was their song. Now its our
song. Whisper into my ear that you’ll hold me
closer. Dance on the pavement and count the head-
lights on highway. I’ll be your Tiny dancer and will live
here
at
your
grand-
parents
home until the lights go out.
A lovely poem – watch out for those homophones though 😉
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