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Plump in navy velveteen
and lace, Miss Murdoch
trilled, I am poor
to us slum dwellers,
and we sang after her, piping
up the scale and down again,
the canon of all children, nihil habeo,
I have nothing. It was true then,
for what did we have?
Cowering in our small spaces,
we hung upon the whims
of others to survive.
Et nihil dabo.
That came true later:
and nothing will I give.