Sometimes I like you, others I'm sad.
But I never hate you, and often I'm glad.
You seem to see the trouble,
but fixing it is hard
Popping the bubble
into a million shards.
Bringing you down
Is what I'll do
Turning you around
And finding something new.
Is this the end, or only a beginning?
What will mistakes, in the future be bringing?
Will life go on, as does the mail?
Or will everything crash, catastrophic fail?
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