Everything she looks at tells a story

I was born in this town

In this particular year

At this particular foundry, mill or shop

Father was a craftsman

Of the first order, you know

Lost my virginity during The Great War

Been rough handled ever since

Rounded where my corners should be

Creased or dented on the flats

I stand in the corner

Half hidden behind the credenza

A stranger to all but one

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