From under the picnic bench
I won’t fight the crows
For the precious little pieces;
scraps of chicken bones.
The pools start to shape
Here where I lay
Cause little Tommy was kicking dirt
as he ate; but just wanted to play.
Oh those merry memories
Of this place they all save
But I think of the hole in the woods
And how this won’t do for a grave.
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4 comments:
Your mind astounds me.
I love lamp... and Lee.
...i miss you.
This has major potential for song lyrics. Or maybe not. Either way, you're painting some great pictures with your words.
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