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In darkened shadows, an ungrateful heart resides,

Ignoring countless blessings, in pitch it hides.

No flowery blooms of appreciation in this barren pasture,

A stark thankless, cold, depressing life that’s fractured

Thank you’s blown away in the whispered wind,

Gifts overlooked, gratitude in recall and rescind.

Each kindness lost to a black void of disdain,

Ungrateful echoes, a last sad refrain.

So our marriage ends today, and with it, love for you

You’re unthankful, unappreciative, and unpleasant, too

You think you’re special, not even close to being great

The kids told me this morning you're a snivelling ingrate

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George Orwell 1903-1950

Young man. E. A. Blair. Literary genius An uncommon flair. Each page, inspired, His soul laid bare, Dystopia pondered From his polished wooden chair. He wrote of men Who lived without a prayer, P.S. B


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