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As the locusts sang in the twilight heat
The Sun no longer baked the city-street,
The lonely last was her to repeat.

Her lonely soul ready to bare
Trying to hide her utter despair,
She wouldn't mind if there were someone to share,

Seeing lovers in the park
Who would hold hands without a care,
She would cry inside, 'It just isn't fair."
In August.

May never comes too soon
June is the month to spoon
July just right for a honeymoon

But August?

July 16 1963
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