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A MOTHER'S CRY TO HER KIND
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And grind as you will in poverty millYou'll wish that you were dead.
"Don't ever have a child,If you must cook and scrubAnd wash your soul, all day long,Into the clothes you rub.For the sight of children bred in want,The cry of their distress,Will make you long to be but a beastOut in the wilderness.
"Don't ever have a child.In winter there is cold,In summer there is fever and death—And a face laid in the mold.And then another—coming to fillIts sallow hungry place,And suck at your breast and drain the lifeAnd hope out of your face.

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