Wednesday, November 12, 2014

A Raking Poem





The leaves they fall,
The leaves they tumble.
With rakes in hand
The people grumble.

They pile them up,
They sweat they strain,
The clock is ticking
It looks like rain.

This job it stinks
When leaves are wet,
But even worse
When snow’s a threat.

So come on kids and grab those rakes,
And to the yard to pick a spot,
That’s yours to earn
Three hots and a cot.  

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