I have a bad habit not to count the
thought,
But to feign surprise and excitement.
Good things cannot be packaged,
Nor can what's left of my soul be
bought.
There are many gifts I receive with my
heart,
Which might be warmer than my hands,
Though I pay more mind to who is giving
them.
I have heard complaints about the
hands.
And why is it still re-gifting
If it brightens a friend's day?
It better honors the thought that way.
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