Like the errant wind
He is whiling away his life
Squirrels scorn him
By their sucking the last bit
Of the marrow in their acorns
Even maple leaves despise
For they resist the sickle of winter
Until they are clad of amazing colour.
He is whiling away his life
Squirrels scorn him
By their sucking the last bit
Of the marrow in their acorns
Even maple leaves despise
For they resist the sickle of winter
Until they are clad of amazing colour.
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