Thursday, April 18, 2013



There’s a little man who smiles at me
Laughs and cries and dines with me
Who waits and begs to play with me
And never seems to tire
Of hearing stories true or fairy
Of everything imaginary
But now and then
I’ll tell him something
Of me before he found his way here
And crinkling up his nose a bit
Because he somehow can’t believe it
Asks, “Papa was there life before me?”
“No”, I answer, “nothing really.”

R.W. Dooley

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