Last time I saw,
a pumpkin like figure.
The spark in darkness,
makes it even look like a solitaire.
Where was she full day is suspensive?
Finding me equivocal and look pensive,
My tender age makes mommy thinks,
this thoughts are never to be considered offensive,
One after other things turn intensive.
Not a pumpkin, not a solitaire.
It is moon, mine and your.
Secrets told to her is kept secure,
Loneliness is my disease she always cure.
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