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ACCUSTOMED TO THE SIGHT



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ACCUSTOMED TO THE SIGHT

There's a beach in Southwest Africa Where, I'm led to understand, Precious stones are washed ashore And caught upon the sand. And native tribesmen let them lay, Since common to their world; A diamond often skips a wave As out to sea it's hurled. There's a village in the Yukon hills Where, through the darkest nights, A luminescent banner flies They call the northern lights. The colors flash in brilliant hues As through the stars they weave; But to the native of the north It's just another eve. There's a home wherein a lady dwells Whose beauty brightly beams; Projecting virtue from within, Her goodness gently gleams. And often times her chosen man, Accustomed to the sight, Lets appreciation wane And treats her less than right. But vowing now to see her true, He writes this simple rhyme; He's honored to be one with her, And shall be for all time.
Wes Stephenson

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