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This poem was written by a workaholic dad:

I have a son who’s five years old, a boy so very fine.

When I look at him it seems to me that all the world is mine.

But seldom do I ever see my son awake and bright.

I only see him when he sleeps. I’m only home at night.

When I come home so weary in the darkness after day

My wife says to me, “You should have seen him play.”

So I stand beside his bed and I look and ponder there

And I wonder if he’s dreaming, “Why isn’t Daddy here?”

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