O Child Of Mine Grow No-Older
Place your head upon my shoulder
O child of mine grow no-older.
Less life's platitudes make you stronger.
Stay with me a little longer!
Misfortune' rings her lowly bell
She's waiting there to here you, yell.
Solemnly she's genial but who should tell.
She'd wish all that's virtuous smote in hell!
O child of mine grow no-older.
Than the stone Jesus Christ moreover!
Newborn, bold-over...
poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
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