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Monday, March 14, 2022

A POEM FOR ALL SEASONS

When I blow snow,
Away it will go,
I might be paid doe,
To buy a me a hoe,
For the garden, you know,
To keep the weeds low,
To make pickles grow,
So my plants don't feel woe,
Next, tie my shoes with a bow,
And the lawn I must mow,
Then I'll jump in my dingy and row, row, row, row.








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