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so you can shove your decorum up your arse,
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shove your dignity up your arse,
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cos nobody gives a shit.
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Secondly, I am sick of you looking down your nose at me.
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I am sick of you treating me like a child.
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What you see here is grief. This is acceptance of grief.
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- A mature and adult acceptance of grief. - Adult!
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That's not what I see when I look at you.
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I see a woman running round like a blue-arsed fly
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cos she's too scared, too bloody immature,
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to face the fact that our son is dead.
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Robbie is DEAD.