My nails look as if done by a ten-year-old girl,
All splotchy and smeared and lumpy.
I suppose one could say in a way that they were,
Even though the girl's over twenty.
If I could go back all those years just to warn her
That she'd regret not learning things "girly,"
I don't think I'd bother with such an effort,
For I know she would simply ignore me.
But now she's behind and a little bit lost,
Though it really does count that she's trying.
She'll figure it out, with practice and time
And kill those regrets she's been fighting.
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