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He leans against the playground wall, Smacks his hand against the bricks, And other boredom beating tricks, Traces patterns with his feet, Scuffles to make the tarmac squeak. The playgrounds' quick with life, The beat is strong, Though sharp as a knife, Strife doesn't last long, There is shouting, laughter and song, And a place at a wall, For who don't belong. We pass him running, slipping, walking, In a slow huddled group, low talking, Each in our, familiar clique We pass him by and never speak