| on a cold December, just before dawn
|
| as the sun said Hello! |
| to the sky
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| the Mantis prayed while the Lamellicorn
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| tunneled and rolled in a threadbare tie
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| while the Holland Lops in the Karakung Glades
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| indignantly thump their feet and hop away
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| when they cut their noses on the sharp-tipped blades
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| (which the grass doesn’t mind in the least)
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| and there’s a heat-pat waiting in the chicken-wire hutch
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| where the does from the Netherlands stay
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| [but that dry alfalfa don’t taste like much
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| and we’re tired of the Timothy hay]
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| I touched her back, she was lying facedown
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| as the dew turned to frost around her eyes,
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| me and Sister Margaret on the Pentagon lawn
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| arrested, our wrists in a plastic tie
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| while the rats by the tracks on these winter days
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| seeking shelter from the cold make a nest
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| from the tracts of our various ways
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| they can save their immortal souls
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| [oh, no… Timothy hay?
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| please, no more Timothy hay!]
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| on a cold December, just after dusk
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| as the sun bids its cordial goodbyes,
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| we’ll be split to pieces like an apple seed husk
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| to reveal the tree that’s been hidden inside
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| which sapling called in a tattered sarong
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| as the seeds from the Shepherd’s Purse fell,
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| broke the news to Mom,
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| we found a better Mom we call 'God,'
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| which she took quite well
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| singing, what a beautiful God there must be! |