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Twins Poem

There's two to wash, there's two to dry,
there's two who argue, there's two who cry.

One's in the mud having a ball,
the other holds a crayon, another marked wall.

Some days seem endless, my patience grows thin.
Why was I chosen to be a Mother of Twins?

The answer comes clear at the end of each day
as I tuck them in bed and to myself I say.

There's two to kiss, there's two to hug,
and best of all there's two to love.