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A pattern so common it fits like a glove.
Travel away at night and toward in the morning.
"What is the strange pattern?!?" I shout, imploring.
These acts seem fraught with total frustration.
A script defining a bumper to bumper nation.
And then, on the weekends I always wonder,
What happened to the day's normal blunder?
"Oh well," I say, with a pet of the mountains.
Off to splash among the clouds' fountains.