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          Lumbering giants with orange cracked skin
          you pulling my hand,
          eager to show me each new marvel as
          we press our faces
          to glass searching for Nimmo and Dori.
          Appropriate that
          you called me “Bastard Duckling” and I saw 
          your future children
          trailing behind you as we scaled boulders
          beside the water.

          I wasn’t there, but that was no surprise.
          I almost wanted 
          to take back my words when I saw your eyes,
          "I don’t believe in
          marriage.” There he goes again. Clam Face. No,
          I won’t be there, but
          I know you were born to make more ducklings.
          You will come alive
          when they are placed in your arms. It’s almost
          enough to make me
          want to be with you. But I was born to 
          a lonely purpose.

          So give me your gifts while you can lover,
          and I will keep them,
          recycling them for days when there are 
          no elephants, no
          Nimmo, no Bastard Ducklings, not even
          a Clam Face for me.