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Bring the Flowers to My Grave
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Me, Myself, And Am I Alive? There once was a girl who looked like me.
She sang like me, and laughed like me, and wrote like me.
But even as you ask, she was not me.
She is not me, but I am her.
It makes sense, that me is her.
For no one wants to be me, but every girl wants to be her.
