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Upon the fabric, a trail is laid, A mark of your day, not to be swayed. From the front to the rear, a path so clear, Of your movements and actions, my dear. The underwear, once pristine, now bears this mark, A story etched in, like a ship's log.
The skid marks, they whisper of your journey's length, From morning's rush to evening's gentle length. They speak of your laughter, your joy, and your strife, Of the moments you sat, or the times you did run.
Thank you for your time.
loser