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 Jun 2014
B J Clement
I wrote a little poem,
it wasn't very long,
and then I was distracted
by a glorious bird song,
A goose ate my poem,
I hope she can digest it
and it does her some good,
she's a cheeky little thing
and it's not her normal food.
 Jun 2014
B J Clement
Dusty the miller sits on the sill
And idly waits for a turn of the mill,
but the wind is fickle and will not blow
so the sails won’t turn and the mill won’t go,
and Dusty the miller his wage can’t earn
for his blooming wife and his little bairn.
So he sends for Toby from down the lane
who sailed the seas of the Spanish Main,
and fought aboard The Prince of Wales
to whistle a wind up to drive the sails.
So Toby raised the pipe to his lips
and began to blow like they do on ships
and the notes went soaring into the sky,
to the home of the north wind bye and bye.
On hearing them the north wind draws
a mighty breath, and then he roars
and the sails of the mill begin to fill
and the last I heard they were turning still…

— The End —