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It's all about the weather or my pets it seems I write,
Now that could put the average poet in a dreadful plight,
Unable to put other things of interest into ryhme,
It seems however that this poet doesn't have the time.
I cannot think of things to say, I work too many hours,
And then if working is all done, I'm mowing, weeding flowers.
Or cleaning rooms or dishes, or out to walk the dog.
There's nothing there to write about, except a fallen log,
The one that fell along the path, that Mikey likes to go,
Although it's pretty sitting there, there isn't much you know.
Not much that is, to write about, a piece of fallen tree,
So off I go to chores and things, whatever else I'll see.
Have a good day!
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