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Dearest,



The days are getting cold.  The days are getting old.  The men are cold.  The men are bold.  We are all getting old.  It will be over soon, I am told.  I look forward to coming home, when I can fold my tent, and come home, and I can hold you.  That feeling will be more valuable to me, than a pot of gold.  It is something I never want sold, and I hope it leaves a mold.  



Sincerely,



Chris