Grandmother, Charlottesville
Kevin Hart
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Poor thing, I see you just one step outside
That smooth cruel paradise, a lumpy bag
In either hand, a hill to climb, a hot
Small house to get to, half an hour from here,
The air grown fat and sweaty everywhere,
But talk won’t make it any easier,
Won’t make old feet go any faster, no,
Won’t make wild sun slide right behind that hill
