My house consists of red bricks,
sometimes it needs a little fix.
But there's one little brick,
which looks frickin sick.
It's not like the others
neither different from his brothers.
At the end I'm just dumb,
There's just an imprint of my thumb.
I will end this poem soon,
but there flies a red balloon,
and I have to write about it too,
At the sky in the noon,
Flies a big red balloon...
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