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My dear stumblebum child
the glass is half empty. I’m sorry.
The race does not go to the swift,
but merely the dogged.
The fleet of tongue and mind
shall have no place in the dominion
of those with office doors.
The intellectually magnanimous,
the marveling, the loquacious
and gifted and teary wanderers,
those with an enrapturing ken
and a grasp of Life’s translucent arc,
shall ever defer to dim bulbs and half-wits,
they whose wherewithal it was
to push, weedlike, through the sidewalk.
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