Fish Bowl

The trouble with being a goldfish

Is not what you would think.

First and foremost, year by year,

The fish bowl tends to shrink.

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And as the world keeps rolling on

Its tired projector reel,

Round and round and round I go,

Living from meal to meal.

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Sometimes I stop to cry a bit

But no one can ever tell -

My tears float around the bowl,

Stuck with me in the spell.

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