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Moil under lashing light of an enduring exodus,
A drying soil, a dying crop,
The violent green and befuddling white of thine tasteless lettuce,
Here I see hope, while thou might see a barren ground top.
When the slippery slime of pink crawl skin-bound,
Or as the untreated wounds of my feet are devoured by the ground,
The heat drains the passion I have dearly acquired,
Of when days of Spring passed, when rain put out fire.
Today is none but arid wasteland,
Cloudy climbs of carrying carrots,
Across fields far, irregardless of tegument tanned,
We are but to accept the demolition of our crops signed by ferrets.
Yet through it all, at the dinner table we sit,
We eat all through our work to keep healthy, and fit,
And though we push so hard to hesitantly swallow glop,
It is what we do, harvest crop.
Тhɑt is such a enjoyable game and we had an iԀeal birthdаy
Daddy.? Larry added. ?Can we play ?What?s the most effеctiove factor about God?
tomorrow too?? һhe begged his Mommy.